FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 


REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 


BEQUEATHED   BY  HIM   TO 

THE    LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 

! 
23/3 


i 


MEDITATIONS 


II YM 


BY 

"X." 


PROTESTANT  EPISCOPAL  BOOK  SOCIETY, 

PHILADELPHIA. 

1224  CHESTNUT   STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S61, 
by  J.  Hamilton,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court, 
in  and  for  the  Eastern  District  of  the  State  of  Pennsylvania. 


Collins,  Printer,  705  Jayxe  St. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Dying  Grace 5 

The  One  Thing  Withheld 9 

The  Christian's  Song  in  Humiliation           .        .  12 

Love          .        .         .  . 14 

The  Cross 17 

Eventide '    .         .         .19 

The  Rivulet 24 

Saved  by  Grace 28 

The  Release 34 

Cloud  Shadows 36 


IV 


CONTEXTS. 


The  Nameless  Graves 

Looking  Within 

Spring 

August 

Nature 

All  God's  Works  Declare  Him 

The  View  Across  the  River 

Silent  Influences 

Christ's  Help  and  All-sufficien 

Morning   .... 

Dusk         .... 

Midnight 

The  Beautifying  Power 

The  Snow-storm 

Singleness  of  Purtose  . 

The  Present    . 

The  Teacher  Taught 

Severity  and  Gentleness 

The  Butterfly     ,  . 

God's  Greatest  Work     . 

Ph<f:be  Ann  Jacobs'  Cottage 


CONTENTS. 


The  Eagle 

The  Sea-coast  Cave 

Praise 

Prayer 

Peace  in  Trouble    . 

Awaking  at  Night  . 

Unbelief 

Who  hath  Preserved  me 

The  Secret  Sin 

Without  and  With  the  Cross 

The  Mirror 

The  Dying  Hour 

Here  and  Hereafter 

Conflict 

The  Necessity  of  Faith 

Omniscience     . 

Perfection  of  all  God's  Works 

The  Summer  Cottage  in  Winter 

Daily  Falls     .... 

The  Weight     .  . 

The  Pilgrim's  Song 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


Grief  at  a  Mother's  Loss 

Ever  Near  Falling 

Delay  of  Christian  Effort 

Authorship 

The  World  and  our  Labors 

A  Spring  in  the  Woods  . 

Posthumous  Fame    . 


PAGE 

166 
168 
170 
173 
175 
179 
183 


MEDITATIONS  AND  HYMNS. 


DYING  GRACE. 


When  from  disease  or  weariness, 
I  know  not  which,  weak,  in  distress, 

I  on  my  couch  am  laid, 
How  sweet  it  is,  while  waiting  there, 
Eeleased  from  all  disturbing  care, 

To  feel  my  peace  is  made ! 


DYING  GRACE. 

I  seem  escaped  from  earthly  things, 
Loosed  by  that  Spirit's  power,  who  brings 

The  suppliant  near  the  Throne ; 
While  sins  that  threatened  me  before, 
Now,  silenced,  terrify  no  more, 

And  naught  but  love  is  known. 

The  dark  clouds  that  I  feared  might  lower 
And  fill  with  gloom  my  final  hour, 

Have  from  this  spot  passed  by; 
Lo !  where  I  forward  looked  with  dread, 
I,  now,  midst  fruits  and  flowers  am  led 

Beneath  a  cloudless  sky ! 

'Tis  not  by  process  of  the  mind, 
By  thought,  by  argument  I  find, 

From  all  fear  this  release ; 
Bat  as  the  showers  do  silent  fall 
Where  they  are  sent,  without  my  call 

Comes  down  this  perfect  peace. 


DYING   GRACE. 

Oft  have  I  wrestled  in  my  day, 

When  strength  was  mine,  and  all  my  way 

Seemed  strewed  with  hindrances, 
And  oft  my  cup  seemed  running  o'er 
With  answers  given,  but  ne'er  before 

Found  I  such  peace  as  this! 

In  perfect  weakness,  when  I  feel 

No  earthly  balm  my  wounds  could  heal, 

And  none  from  Heaven  be  sought, 
Then  all  my  bruises  are  made  whole, 
While  to  my  drooping,  fainting  soul, 

Cordials  of  joy  are  brought. 

Ah !  'tis  not  yet  my  time  to  die, 
This  hour  of  languor  shall  pass  by,' 

'Tis  but  of  toil  my  pain ! 
When  these  tired  limbs  their  couch  have  pressed, 
I  rising  soon,  refreshed  by  rest, 

Will  seek  my  task  again. 


DYING   GRACE. 

But,  never  more,  will  I  forget 
The  Saviour  I  this  day  have  met 

In  Love-Divine's  embrace ; 
When  fears  of  death  assert  their  power, 
I'll  answer,  With  the  dying  hour 

He  will  bring  Dying  Grace ! 


THE  ONE  THING  WITHHELD. 


Though  I  be  useful  where  my  lot  is  cast, 
Serving  my  Lord  in  many  humbling  ways, 

Though  of  his  pardoning  mercy  made  to  taste, 
And  by  his  Spirit  taught  to  oner  praise — 

Though  I  am  one  of  Christ's,  and  born  anew, 
Yea,  and  have  sweet  assurance  in  my  heart 

That  I  am  numbered  with  the  chosen  few 
Who,  from  his  fold,  shall  never  more  depart : 


10  THE    ONE   THING   WITHHELD. 

Yet,  if  there  be  one  bend  in  all  the  road, 
One  hill  or  vale  by  which  he  leadeth  me, 

Where  I  would  murmur,  or  cast  down  my  load, 
I  still  am  far  from  what  I  ought  to  be. 

If  but  one  pain  unwillingly  I  bear, 
If  but  one  service  hard  I  him  deny, 

If  aught  in  life  to  trust  with  him  I  fear, 
If  there  be  one  way  I  refuse  to  die ; 

By  just  so  much,  my  heart  perverse  and  blind, 
The  fulness  of  its  portion  fails  to  see; 

While  in  his  whole  will  one  defect  I  find, 
I  still  am  far  from  what  I  ought  to  be. 

I  may  receive  of  heavenly  support, 

Good  works  may  grow  and  prosper  in  my  hand, 
And  if  but  Christ's,  however  I  come  short, 

His  grace  shall  bring  me  to  the  Promised  Land. 


THE  ONE  THING  WITHHELD.  11 

But  here  on  earth,  my  soul  shall  never  know 
What  might  have  been  its  untold  happiness ; 

Slighting  my  privilege  I  still  shall  go, 

My  service  and  my  recompense,  both  less. 


12 


THE  CHRISTIAN'S  SONG  IN  HUMILIATION. 


That  does  me  good  which  humbles  me, 
And  when  I  am  abased  most, 

More  have  I,  than  if  heir  to  all 
The  empty  honors  Earth  can  boast. 

'Tis  not  the  pleasantest  estate, 
Far  hidden  in  the  vale  below ; 

Yet  thither,  from  the  hills  around, 
Enriching  streams  make  haste  to  flow. 


THE   CHRISTIAN'S  SONG   IN   HUMILIATION.  13 

And  surely  it  doth  comfort  yield, 

Amid  dishonor,  loss  or  shame, 
To  think — Now  in  the  very  place 

Where  blessings  most  abound  I  am ! 

When  bowed  beneath  some  heavy  cross 

I  toiling  go,  or  while  I  bear 
The  lesser  humblings  of  each  hour, 

This  makes  their  frowning  presence  fair. 


14 


LOYE. 


When  on  the  heart  we  look,  to  find 

Whose  cherished  image  it  doth  wear, 
We  learn  that  not  the  loftiest  mind 

Doth  grave  its  name  most  deeply  there, 
But  the  forgiving,  true  and  kind; 

And  knowing  this,  and  that  above 
All  offerings  that  can  rendered  be 

To  us,  we  most  desire  love, 
It  hath  a  marvel  been  to  me 


LOVE.  15 

That  Gentleness  and  Charity 

We  strive  not  harder  to  attain, 

Though  for  ourselves,  alone,  the  gain! 
Doth  not  a  hasty  spirit  fling 

That  one  first  drop  of  bitterness 
Into  Love's  pure  and  healing  spring, 

That  else  would  flow  forth  but  to  bless  ? 
Or  like  an  unquenched  spark  it  lies, 

Even  'midst  the  gathered  bonds  of  home, 
It  fires,  it  snaps  the  tender  ties 

That  should  bind  brethren  into  one. 

Oh,  for  that  calm  and  equal  mind 
Whose  peace  a  breath  may  not  disturb, 

Who,  where  the  soil  seems  all  unkind, 

Some  hidden  virtue  still  will  find, 
And  its  own  enmity  doth  curb. 

Few  spots  of  earth  have  fruitless  proved, 
When  patient  hands  have  come  to  till; 


16  LOVE. 

Few  hearts  but  some  have  justly  loved, 
Few  but  we  may  love  if  we  will. 

Are  any  pure  ?    Hath  Love  a  law 
By  which  unmingled,  spotless  worth 

Alone  may  claim  regard  from  her? 
Then  may  she  turn,  to-day,  from  earth ! 

The  trait  to  love,  must  oft  be  sought 

Like  veins  in  treasure-yielding  ground ; 
If  the  bare  surface  holds  it  not, 

Deeper,  perchance,  it  may  be  found — 
And  having  found  it,  oh  how  fair 

Th'  uncovered  grace  shows  to  the  light ! 
The  whole  wide,  stony  waste  doth  wear 

For  it,  new  beauty  in  our  sight. 
The  Gold  is  reached !  its  hue  we  see  ! 

All'  hid  in  our  own  breasts  of  such, 
As  by  some  secret  alchemy, 

Thrills  at  its  first  life-giving  touch, 
And  glows  with  kindred  sympathy ! 


17 


THE  CROSS. 


If  thou  a  Christian  art,  bound  to  thy  lot 

Shall  be  some  Cross.    It  is  the  load  all  bear 

Who  follow  Christ  toward  heaven.    When  at  length, 

After  long  bafflings,  thou  hast  found  out  thine, 

Seek  not  to  loose  it  more.    Turn,  and  in  love 

Embrace  it,  for  whatever  shape  it  wear, 

It  is,  in  truth,  thy  friend.    The  ease  it  spoils, 

Or  the  good  gifts  it  seems  to  hold  thee  from, 


18  THE  CROSS. 

Are  nothing,  to  those  blessings  yet  unknown, 
Which  in  th'  mysterious  orderings  of  thy  fate 
Are  knit  with  it,  and  it  alone,  for  thee. 


19 


EYENTIDE. 


This  is  the  hour  when,  far  back  in  old  time, 
Isaac,  at  Eve,  walked  forth  to  meditate. 
Amid  green  fields  he  walked,  with  lowing  herds 
Far  scattered  round  him.     "Who  can  tell  how  "oft 
At  this  same  hour,  through  all  the  ages  since, 
Lone  wanderers  amid  like  solitude, 
Have  mused  with  holy  thought  as  he  did  then  ? 
There  is  an  influence  uttered  not,  but  strong 


20  EVENTIDE. 

That  Nature  doth  shed  forth  to  win  men  now, 

And  they  yield  to  it,  though  discerning  not 

To  what  high  teaching  woos  her  gentle  hand. 

I  tread  not  the  green  fields,  but  on  the  brink 

Of  the  steep  shore,  beside  the  river's  flood, 

I  sit  me  down  alone.    The  restless  winds 

That  ruffle  this  expanse  by  day  and  night, 

Are  all  departed,  leaving  the  wide  plain 

Smooth  as  a  mirror.     In  the  distant  west 

The  sun  goes  down;  his  brightest  rays  are  gone, 

And  clouds  that  late  received  him,  passing  through, 

With  gorgeous  colors,  faded  once  again, 

Deepen  in  purple  as  he  far  descends. 

But,  scattered  through  the  heaven  outspread  above, 

Lone,  loftier  clouds  still  catch  the  crimson  tints 

And  cast  their  shadows  in  the  tide  below. 

Look  at  the  scene !     That  purple  wall  of  cloud, 

Built  'gainst  the  west,  inverted  now  we  see. 

Those  forests,  that  the  opposite  shore  do  fringe, 


EVENTIDE.  21 

Are  doubled,  each  tree  spreading  dark  beneath ; 
While  over  all  the  glassy  surface  spread, 
At  intervals,  the  red  clouds  of  the  sky 
Are  pictured,  yet  more  soft,  deep — deep  below ! 
The  heavens  grow  dark — between  those  crimson  spots 
The  answ'ring  waters  blacken,  and  the  stars, 
Just  shown  above,  I  see  relighted  there. 
Oh  beautiful!     Can  I  no  further  reach? 
Often  thus  far  I've  come  and  looked  upon 
The  works  spread  round  me,  till  they  filled  my  soul, 
And  every  faculty  it  doth  contain, 
With  the  acknowledgment  of  nature's  charms, 
But  ever  with  them  seems  to  come  a  bar — 
A  barrier  to  some  farther  sought  advance. 
They  are  most  beautiful,  yet  they  impart 
No  other  speech  to  me,  no  larger  being ! 
I  pause  upon  the  brink  of  the  beyond, 
And  am  not  satisfied !     My  soul  still  thirsts 
For  something  more.     As  far  as  they  extend 
"      3 


22  EVENTIDE. 

'Tis  well,  and  fills  me  with  a  deep  delight ; 

Yet  that  which  whets  the  spirit's  appetite 

Not  satisfies  its  hunger !     Ah,  my  soul, 

Be  thou  content  to  learn  what  this  would  teach. 

Nature  is  not  thy  God.     It  holdeth  not 

The  final  good,  yet  coming  from  God's  hand 

Would  win  thee  to  him.     It  is  not  prepared 

To  take  the  place  which  He  alone  can  fill, 

Upon  the  fall'n  heart's  vacant  throne  of  love ; 

Nor  are  the  charms  so  thick  about  thee  spread 

That  whereon  thou  must  feed !    Thy  Saviour's  Cross 

Is  thy  true  portion.     Kest  nor  pleasure  here, 

From  any  visible  nor  from  unseen  things, 

Can  be  thy  chief  employment,  clothed  in  clay ; 

But  in  the  intervals  between  the  toils 

And  stern  tasks  of  thine  upward  pilgrimage, 

Nature,  with  all  the  visible,  beauteous  acts 

And  works  of  the  Creator,  are  to  help 

As  glimpses — springs  of  water  by  the  way, 


EVENTIDE.  23 

That  lead  toward  the  great  river,  tasting  faint 

Of  that  pure  Stream  of  Life  !    When  then,  beguiled 

With  these  beginnings  of  that  final  draught, 

Thou  treadest  now,  no  more,  the  pilgrim's  path, 

But  seekest  here  to  linger  and  draw  forth 

The  soul's  full  cup  of  bliss — the  stream  so  sweet 

For  its  true  purpose,  stagnates  to  thy  taste ! 

Nature,  however  woo'd  or  looked  upon, 

Can  yield  but  that  for  which  she  hath  been  sent. 

I  have,  then,  too  much  sought  to  fill  my  mouth 

With  fruits  plucked  from  her — in  those  shaded  bowers 

Meant  to  refresh,  I  have  made  my  abode; 

And  so  I  find,  by  wisdom's  ordered  rule, 

Which  may  not  bend  for  me,  that  her  delights, 

Kather  than  adding  more  unto  their  store, 

Have  lost  of  what  was  at  the  first  their  bulk. 


24 


THE  EIVULET  * 


Deep  in  a  wood  I  walked,  where  bending  boughs 
Close-grouped,  denied  an  entrance  to  the  eye, 

When  suddenly,  soft  on  my  ear  arose 

The  sound  of  waters  flowing  somewhere  nigh. 

Thirsting  amid  the  noonday's  sultry  heat, 
And  wearied  with  my  journey,  steep  and  long, 

From  the  lone  path  I  turned  my  willing  feet 
To  seek  whence  came  this  voice  of  forest  song. 

*  1  Cor.  x.  4. 


THE   RIVULET.  25 

Through  depths  of  withered  leaves,  with  rustling  tread, 

I  forced  my  way  in  utter  solitude, 
Still  by  the  murmuring  of  the  waters  led, 

That  louder,  as  I  came,  swelled  through  the  wood : 

Till  presently,  a  noisy  Eivulet 

There  tumbling  over  mossy  stones,  I  found; 
Above  it,  high  in  air,  tall  branches  met, 

And  wild  flowers  bloomed  beside  it,  on  the  ground. 

I  stooped  and  from  its  gushing  current  drew 
Refreshment,  that  cooled  all  my  toilworn  frame; 

Then,  lingering  not  its  secret  charms  to  view, 
Turned  and  resought  the  path  from  whence  I  came. 

But  still  the  hidden  stream  flowed  by  my  way 
For  many  a  mile,  and  till  the  evening  hour ; 

Still  heard  I,  through  the  wood,  its  soft  wild  lay ; 
Still  felt  I  that  cool  draught's  refreshing  power. 


26  THE  RIVULET. 

In  the  sweet  sound  there  was  companionship, 
It  fell  upon  my  heart  like  words  of  cheer; 

And  well  I  knew,  again  my  thirsty  lip 

Might  drink,  if  need  be,  from  its  current  clear. 

That  night,  when  lying  down,  my  journey  o'er, 

Ere  I  its  toils  in  slumber  could  forget, 
By  fancy  led,  revisiting  once  more 

The  lonely  wood,  the  murmuring  rivulet ; 

Methought,  how  like  a  richer  stream  hath  been 
The  brook  that  followed  by  my  side  to-day: 

So  doth  Christ's  Presence,  through  life's  changing  scene, 
Comfort  the  heaven-bound  pilgrim  on  his  way. 

When  earth,  for  him,  lies  clothed  with  verdure  bright, 

When  trouble  strips  it  to  a  wilderness ; 
In  Joy's  glad  morning,  or  in  Sorrow's  night, 

That  Presence  doth  attend  him  but  to  bless. 


THE   KIVULET.  27 

And  still  the  Christian,  as  he  journeys  on, 
Feeling,  whate'er  his  lot,  sin's  inward  power, 

Doth  listen  to  its  voice,  and  lean  upon 
The  help  it  giveth  in  the  trying  hour. 

Often  he  turneth  from  the  world  aside, 
Seeking  fresh  vigor  for  the  conflict  there ; 

He  drinketh  from  that  life-renewing  tide, 
While  borne  aloft  in  praise,  or  bowed  in  prayer. 

Sweet  Stream !  by  thee  I  long  have  nurtured  been , 
A  loving  hand  me  by  thy  course  has  led, 

Yet  do  I  thirst !    When  shall  I  enter  in 

With  ransomed  soul,  blood-bought  fcom  Death  and  Sin, 
Where  I  may  drink  deep,  at  the  Fountain  Head ! 


28 


SAVED  BY  GRACE. 


'Tis  vain,  the  endeavor  to  make  pure 
Our  hearts  before  God's  sight, 

They  cannot  e'en  the  search  endure, 
By  Reason's  partial  light. 

For  though  with  man,  pride  may  forbid 
We  should  our  faults  confide, 

Who  feels  not  in  his  bosom  hid 
That  many  yet  abide  ? 


SAVED  BY   GRACE.  29 

But  when  God's  Spirit  hath  us  taught 

His  perfect  Law,  we  feel 
The  sin  that  tinges  but  the  thought, 

The  guilt  words  ne'er  reveal. 

What  seemed  a  trivial  stain  before, 

In  nature's  estimate, 
Now  spreading,  blots  the  whole  life  o'er, 

And  mars  all  our  estate. 

With  this  new  light  doth  knowledge  come 

That  succor  is  on  high ; 
That  but  One  can  avert  man's  doom, 

His  nature  purify : 

But  not  embraced  quite  by  the  heart, 

These  new  truths  to  it  given, 
We  mostly,  still,  would  weave  a  part 

Of  our  own  dress  for  heaven. 


30  SAVED   BY  GRACE. 

We  strive,  but  sin  still  cleaves  to  us ; 

We  weep  o'er  faults  confessed, 
And  cry :  Ah,  ne'er  polluted  thus, 

Shall  I  attain  that  Rest ! 

Until  oft  raised  and  fall'n  again, 

Oft  baffled  to  and  fro, 
We  find  our  strength  is  spent  in  vain, 

And  that  it  must  be  so. 

That,  whether  in  Christ's  fold  or  not, 

If  from  his  faith  we  fall, 
And  seek  by  works  to  cleanse  sin's  spot, 

Forgetting  He  doth  all — 

If  once  again  toward  our  own  cross 
From  His,  we  turn  our  eyes, 

Or  in  the  least  would  join  our  loss 
With  His  sole  sacrifice — 


SAVED  BY   GRACE.  31 

If,  though  our  lips  belief  profess 

That  grace  can  save  alone, 
Our  hearts,  by  doubtings  and  distress, 

That  simple  trust  disown — 

If  not  through  love,  but  slavish  fear 

We  serve  him,  and  with  dread 
Strive  to  be  blameless,  lest  he  pour 

His  curses  on  our  head, 

We  shall  not  walk  in  peace,  but  go, 
Like  those  who  Christ  ne'er  knew, 

In  bondage  to  a  cruel  foe, 
Life's  weary  journey  through. 

For  Conscience,  when  the  soul  by  her 

Seeks  to  be  justified, 
With  scorpion  lash  and  bloody  spur 

Eunneth  our  path  beside. 


32  SAVED   BY  GRACE. 

Ere  this  day's  set  task  is  begun, 
To-morrow's  farther  bound 

Is  marked ;  her  toils  are  never  done, 
Her  rest  is  never  found. 

Great  burdens  on  the  soul  she  lays, 
And  bids  it  scale  heaven's  height; 

Waking,  sin's  crushing  load  dismays, 
And  fears  of  wrath  by  night. 

But  Grace  does  not  afflict  us  so, 

It  sets  the  prisoner  free ; 
It  bids  the  poor,  bound  captive  go, 

With  a  son's  liberty. 

For  Jesus  knows  how  weak  our  frame, 

But  of  the  dust  we  are ; 
By  pity  moved,  for  us  he  came, 

To  make  our  souls  his  care. 


SAVED   BY   GRACE.  33 

And  our  release  by  Him  is  won, 

Seek  not  to  win  it  o'er; 
Would'st  thou  a  second  time  atone, 

Or  to  his  blood  add  more? 

" Fear  not,"  He  saith,  "on  me  to  stay 

Thy  soul  for  Death's  dark  hour : 
Fear  not  th'  approaching  Judgment  Day, 

The  Law's  condemning  power; 

"  Not  to  the  Law,  but  unto  Me 

Thou  then  shalt  answer  make ; 
I,  who  have  borne  sin's  penalty, 

And  suffered  for  thy  sake." 


34 


THE  RELEASE. 


I  thought,  as  by  my  friend's  sick  couch  I  stood, 
How  like  the  way  is  made  we  all  must  tread, 
Feeble  and  suffering,  downward  to  the  tomb ! 
If  we  could  take  this  from  our  portion  off, 
Disease  and  the  accompaniments  of  death, 
And  go, up,  lifted  as  Elijah  was, 
Unto  that  Best  now  reached  alone  through  them, 
How  many  who  do  shrink  from  year  to  year, 


THE   RELEASE.  35 

^nd  tremble  o'er  the  last  unfettering  step, 

yVould  crowd  life's  farther  threshold !     It  is  well 

some  slight,  imagined  bar  should  hold  us  back, 

)r  clamors  for  deliverance  would  arise 

^here  prayers  for  patience  should  our  tongues  employ, 

S'en  before  heaven,  to  choose  our  Father's  will. 


36 


CLOUD  SHADOWS. 


On  yonder  far,  blue  mountain's  side,  I  see 
Dark  moving  spots.     So  vast  their  bulk  they  touch 
At  once  the  summit  and  the  base ;  they  change 
Their  uncouth  shapes,  and  slowly  creep  along. 
What  are  they?    They  are  shadows  of  the  clouds 
Floating  between  the  mountain  and  the  sun ; 
White  summer  clouds,  within  an  azure  sky. 
More  swift,  across  the  plain,  I  see  them  come 


CLOUD    SHADOWS.  37 

Unchecked  from  field  to  field ;  each  one  in  turn 
Obscuring  for  a  moment.    Where  the  wheat 
]lose  reaped  for  many  an  acre,  stands  in  shocks, 
rhey  cast  a  fleeting  shade ;  the  meadow  green 
ls  darkened  next;  soon  a  whole  waving  wood 
Looks  richer  while  they  lodge  amid  its  top. 
tfow  o'er  me,  in  the  wind-traversed  space, 
[  see  the  forms  from  whence  these  shadows  fall, 
tf o  dimness  clothes  them  there ;  illumined  bright, 
billed  with  the  beams  they  will  not  let  pass  through, 
rhey  add  new  beauty  to  the  realms  of  air. 

3o,  Christian,  from  true  blessings  framed  in  heaven, 
rhine  earthly  seeming  sorrows  ever  fall. 
Jouldst  thou  look  up,  as  I  do,  to  the  height 
From  whence  these  shadows  come,  thou  wouldst  behold, 
For  every  woe  some  greater  mercy  hid, 
Enough  to  make  thee  welcome  the  brief  shade 
Betokening  its  presence.     And  in  this 
4 


38  CLOUD    SHADOWS. 

Faith  hath  its  office  on  our  daily  walk: 
When  we  can  see  the  hour  of  gloom  approach, 
Or  feel  the  burden,  or  the  stripes  laid  on, 
But  not  discern  a  blessing  in  the  cause, 
Faith  tells  us,  though  we  see  it  not,  'tis  there! 


39 


THE  NAMELESS  GRAVES. 


Here  are  two  graves  with  flowers  overgrown, 
No  monument  doth  tell  who  lies  beneath, 

Or  how  the  swift-winged  years  have  come  and  flown 
Since  they  were  laid  here  by  the  hand  of  death. 

Yet  was  there  once  a  time  when  smooth  and  green 
This  sod  unbroken  lay  in  the  cool  shade ; 

Renewed  each  Spring  its  grassy  dress  was  seen, 
Till  autumn  frosts,  returning,  made  it  fade. 


40  THE   NAMELESS   GRAVES. 

This  virgin  soil,  that  ne'er  upheaved  before. 

To  dust  received  those  who  of  dust  were  born, 
Then  closed  again  to  be  disturbed  no  more 

Till  they  shall  rend  it  on  the  Judgment  Morn. 

I  thither  wandering  by  a  toilsome  way, 

To  view  this  quiet  resting-place  am  brought, 

And  lingering  here  as  fades  the  summer's  day, 
Find  'mid  its  quiet  beauties  food  for  thought. 

Though  still  and  lonely  now,  I  do  not  doubt 
There  has  another  scene  been  witnessed  here, 

\Vhen  sorrow,  from  the  stricken  heart,  flowed  out, 
And  where  these  flowers  spring,  fell  the  bitter  tear. 

But  now,  perchance,  the  stricken  heart  is  gone 

That  yearned  for  those  who  lie  beneath  this  spot ; 
Perchance,  of  all  who  tread  the  earth,  not  one 
Remembereth  their  image  or  their  lot! 


THE   NAMELESS   GRATES.  41 

And  this  is  but  the  common  fate  of  all, 

The  world  forgets  us  though  we  loved  it  well, 

And  the  few  kindred  hearts  that  weep  our  fall, 
Soon  following  us,  are  fallen  where  we  fell. 

It  is  not  then  upon  your  earthly  state, 

Ye  nameless  slumb'rers  who  lie  here  at  rest, 

That  lingering  thus  I  muse  and  meditate, 
As  fades  the  day  along  the  golden  west ! 

Though  ye  had  many  lovers  and  few  foes, 

Though  shining  honors  clustered  round  your  brow, 

Though  ye  were  poor  and  suffered  all  the  woes 
Of  keenest  want — what  doth  it  matter  now? 

Earth's  sorrows  and  her  highest  joys,  forgot, 

The  things  ye  sought  in  vain  and  those  ye  won — 

That  pitied  and  that  envied  in  your  lot, 
Are  now  alike  all  gone,  forever  gone ! 


42  THE  NAMELESS  GRAVES. 

Not  to  the  fleeting  things  of  time,  which  die 
As  the  spent  clay  moans  out  its  latest  breath, 

Thought  turns  with  silent,  retrospective  eye, 
But  to  the  soul,  that  still  lives,  after  death. 

Were  ye  of  spirits  broken,  contrite,  meek, 
Forsaking  all  things  for  a  Saviour's  love? 

Did  ye  neglect  a  portion  here,  and  seek 
One  garnered  up  at  His  right  hand,  above? 

Glad  thought !     It  may  be  that  the  path  of  prayer 
Across  life's  waste  these  mould' ring  feet  have  tro.d, 

That,  cheered  by  faith,  through  all  this  night  of  care 
With  joyful  steps  they  hasten'd  home  to  God! 

Sweet  are  their  slumbers  by  the  earth  o'erspread, 
Peaceful  their  rest  beneath  the  grass-grown  heap  ; 

Blest  is  their  couch,  yea,  blest  this  narrow  bed 
To  those  who  here,  till  Jesus'  coming,  sleep. 


THE   NAMELESS    GRAVES.  43 

May  it  be  mine  to  know  their  safe  repose, 
Where'er  I  fall,  whate'er  my  mortal  state ; 

Sin  shall  cease  here — here  all  pursuing  foes, 
As  Heavenward,  I  enter  Death's  dark  gate. 

If  such  my  happy  lot,  I  do  not  fear 

A  dwelling  with  the  worms.     This  crumbling  dust 
Is  but  the  seed ;  then  shall  it  reappear 

New,  at  the  resurrection  of  the  Just! 


44 


LOOKING  WITHIN. 


Am  I  unlike  all  men  beside, 
In  that  polluted  heart  I  hide 

From  others'  sight,  deep  in  my  breast  ? 
Are  they  driven  by  the  evil  thought, 
And  to  the  verge  of  action  brought, 

Of  guilty  action,  ne'er  confessed? 


LOOKING  WITHIN.  45 

I,  who  each  clay,  from  year  to  year, 
Do  offer  up  the  Christian's  prayer, 

And  seek  for  guidance  from  G-od's  Word; 
Still  from  my  closet  often  go, 
Like  passions  with  the  fiends  below, 

To  have  within  my  bosom  stirred! 

Some  scornful  look,  some  slight  offence, 

Some  wooing,  tempting  bait  of  sense, 
My  graces  from  me  quickly  win ; 

And  then  not  Duty,  so  well  known, 

But  God's  restraining  hand  alone, 
Doth  hold  me  back  from  open  sin. 

If  others  be  like  me ;  if  all 

Are  thus  corrupt  and  prone  to  fall, 

How  can  it  move  my  wonder  more 
To  view  triumphant  wickedness, 
To  see  Sin  spreading  power  possess, 

Till  it  prevails  the  whole  world  o'er  ? 


46  LOOKING  WITHIN. 

So  am  I  brought  to  comprehend 
How  we  on  heavenly  aid  depend, 

And  that  without  free,  blood-bought  Grace, 
No  soul  could  hold  to  virtue  here, 
Or  without  trembling  dread  appear 

At  last  before  the  Judge's  face. 


47 


SPRING. 


Even  while  I  write  she  comes !     As  by  the  side 

Of  the. smooth  river  watching,  oft  I  see 

The  breeze  approach  with  ripples  and  white  crests, 

So  we  discern  her  presence  hastening  up 

From  the  far  south.     Or  shall  I  her  compare 

To  one  whose  task  it  is  to  beautify? 

Like  a  bride  decked  for  her  near  nuptial  hour, 

The  betrothed  earth  she  circles  round  with  flowers. 


48 


Or  painter  shall  I  call  her,  laying  on 
Bright  colors,  mingling  every  tint  with  skill? 
She  cometh  like  a  princess,  with  her  train 
Of  singing  birds  attended.     Where  the  fields 
Lay  brown  and  barren  'neath  long  Winter's  reign 
She  calls  the  tender  blade;  gardens  and  grounds 
For  summer  pleasures,  claiming  from  the  waste, 
And  the  sweet  narrow  path  lost  in  the  wood 
'Midst  autumn  leaves,  tracing  out  plain  again. 
The  grave  she  spreadeth  with  fresh  covering ; 
Ever  she  finds  some  new  one,  where  before 
'Twas  smooth  when  she  went  by.     She  passeth  not 
The  lowly  resting-place,  nor  yet  the  bed 
Of  him  who  here  was  great.    Alike  o'er  both 
She  soweth  thick,  emblems  of  life  renewed. 

Ah,  when  shall  she  find  mine  ?  On  what  return 
Will  it  lie  near  her  path?  Beside  what  stream, 
Or  'neath "what  spreading  tree  shall  it  be  made? 


49 


>w  soon,  as  I  write  now  of  those  just  gone, 
all  others  write  of  me?     Ponder,  my  heart! 
ke  not  life's  shortened  thread  but  to  bind  up 
•esy's  fading  flowers.     Although  thy  steps 
told  not  in  thine  ear,  nor  the  days  left 
lfolded  to  thy  sight,  yet  as  he  goes 
ho  hast'neth  by  the  seaside  to  embark, 
nearest  thou  thy  change.     Hast  thou  been  washed 
Blood?  and  doth  the  sin-stained  soul  put  on 
mother's  Kighteousness  ?    Then  shall  this  hour 
'  nature's  glad  awakening  faintly  show 
iat  blest  revival  to  a  Better  Life 
hich  shall  be  thine,  when  from  the  wintry  tomb 
lou  comest  forth,  as  a  Spring-nurtured  plant, 
•  bloom  and  bear  sweet  fruits  forevermore 
dst  fields  that  know  no  blight  nor  frost,  in  Heaven. 


50 


AUGUST. 


How  fair  the  forest  walk  !     I  tread 
Amid  low  bushes,  dense  and  green, 

While  tall  boughs  woven  overhead 
Let  in  noon's  burning  rays  between, 

Checkering  the  earth  beneath  my  feet, 

Where  light  and  shadow,  mingling,  meet 
Richer  than  on  a  palace  floor. 


AUGUST.  51 

Why  cease  the  birds  ?    The  Thrush's  note, 

From  where  she  hides  in  yonder  tree, 
Filling  with  plaints  her  snowy  throat, 

Is  all  the  song  that  comes  to  me. 
But  cricket  shrill  and  grasshopper 
With  noisy  clamor  answer  her, 

And  locusts  with  their  sounding  cry ; 
For  August  now  is  almost  gone, 

Her  latest  hours  are  drawing  nigh, 
The  young  from  downy  nests  have  flown, 
The  parent's  summer  toils  are  done. 

Who  taught  you  now  to  hush  your  song, 
And,  silently,  your  fledglings  bring 
While,  for  far  climes,  ye  plume  the  wing  ? 

So  lead  me,  0  Thou  who  dost  guide 
Them  in  their  flight  till  it  is  passed, 

That  I,  at  the  Good  Shepherd's  side, 

With  all  the  flock  who  there  shall  hide, 
May  reach  the  Heavenly  Fold  at  last ! 


52  AUGUST. 

Within  this  forest  opening 

That  peeps  out  from  the  mountain's  side, 

I  stand  and  look  far  o'er  the  plain, 

Shorn  of  its  robe  of  golden  grain. 
Some  spots  by  deepest  tints  of  brown 
The  ploughman's  earliest  labors  own, 

"Who  doth  the  yielding  sod  prepare 

Its  dress  of  "Winter-wheat  to  wear. 

From  yonder  distant  barn  I  hear 
The  flail  resounding ;  yet  the  sun 
Shines  on  a  landscape  rich  and  green, 
Where  not  a  faded  leaf  is  seen — 

Nature's  decline  is  scarce  begun; 
Only  the  morning's  stirring  breath 
Comes  fresher,  while  I  rest  beneath 

This  verdant  roof  and  court  its  shade. 
And  as  the  sunset  hour  draws  on 
A  purple  haze  descends  upon 

The  distant  hills,  and  fading  day 

Hastens  with  fleeter  step  away. 


AUGUST.  53 

We  thank  Thee,  who  hast  caused  the  field 
Once  more  its  bounteous  stores  to  yield ; 

In  garners  safe  the  husbandman 
Hath  laid  a  world's  provision  by, 

Which  not  his  toiling  arm  hath  won, 
But  Thou,  for  our  need,  didst  supply. 


54 


NATURE. 


Thou  lookest  on  some  fragment  of  the  Past, 
Some  carved  Sarcophagus  which  hid  hath  lain, 
Covered  up,  unknown  for  a  thousand  years; 
And  the  dim  fancies  that  around  it  throng, 
Fictions  upsummoned  but  from  thine  own  brain, 
Clothe  it  with  interest.    But  when,  in  thy  search 
Through  all  its  parts,  the  closer  scrutiny 
Reveals  some  strange  inscription  that  doth  tell 


55 


Who  laid  there  in  his  ancient  sleep  of  death, 

Giving  the  name  and  lineage  of  a  king — 

How  doth  that  interest  deepen  into  awe ! 

So  once  I  walked  beside  a  murmuring  brook 

In  early  youth  (I  know  the  stream  yet  well, 

And  where  far  through  a  wooded  glen  it  winds), 

Feeling  the  stirrings  of  a  strange  delight 

Such  as  in  other  ears  I  might  not  speak, 

Tho'  conscious  of  the  source  from  whence  it  sprang. 

Yet  as  I  followed  on  that  brook's  green  brink, 

Noting  its  falls  and  eddies — leaping  now 

Across  its  bosom  to  the  firmer  side — 

Now  sitting  down  beneath  some  spreading  tree, 

Gazing  and  listening  to  its  gentle  song, 

There  was  imparted  to  my  childish  soul 

A  sense  of  beauty  and  a  real  joy. 

These  were  responses  from  that  answering  chord 

Placed  in  my  bosom — early  openings 

Of  that  perception  which  notes  nature's  charms! 


56  NATURE. 

But  as  I  grew,  and  this  instinctive  sense 

Deepened  with  years,  Grace  the  full  truth  revealed 

That  all  these  charms  were  fashioned  by  the  hand 

Of  One  who  loved  me;  and  that  Nature  stood 

Robed  as  she  was,  not  to  embody  forth 

Some  unknown  God,  some  dim  unformed  belief, 

That  we,  kept  back  from  any  near  approach, 

Should  darkly  worship  her,  or  Him  in  her ; 

But  wrought  out  by  God's  hand  veiled  from  my  sight, 

The  visible  witness  of  his  Power  and  Love. 

As  thou  wouldst  walk  amid  mementos  spread 

From  one  beloved,  yet  hidden  from  thine  eyes, 

So  walk  I  amid  nature !  and  if  now, 

After  a  circling  pilgrimage  of  years, 

My  steps  were  led  back  to  that  early  stream, 

Not  by  the  mind's  maturer  growth  alone, 

But  by  this  new  interpretation  given, 

Would  all  its  beauties  show  to  me  more  fair. 


57 


ALL  GOD'S  WOKKS  DECLAEE  HIM. 


There's  not  a  flower  upon  the  plain 
That  drinks  the  dew  or  summer's  rain, 
But,  as  it  spreads  its  tints  abroad, 
Doth  speak  the  goodness  of  our  God. 

On  every  leaf  and  springing  blade 
That  rustles  through  the  forest  glade, 
Some  trace  or  vestige  fair  is  shown 
By  which  His  power  divine  is  known. 


58  all  god's  works  declare  him. 

The  warblings  in  the  lone  woods  heard, 
The  deep  tones  by  the  tempest  stirred, 
In  voice  of  wrath  or  tenderness, 
Alike,  His  will  supreme  express. 

The  sombre  night  doth  Him  proclaim, 
It  utters  forth  His  dreadful  name ; 
Morn  doth  those  gloomy  shades  dispel, 
And  of  triumphant  mercy  tell. 

The  spreading  skies  of  spotless  blue 
Bear  witness,  and  the  thick  clouds  too ; 
Earth  doth  her  testimony  bring 
In  wintry  robes  or  dress  of  spring. 

All  nature's  works,  0  Lord,  combine 
T'  exalt  thy  Name,  for  they  are  thine; 
May  we,  with  hearts  taught  in  thy  ways, 
From  deeper  source  bring  loftier  praise ! 


59 


THE  VIEW  ACROSS  THE  RIVER. 


When  morning  fills  the  eastern  skies, 
Or  noon  to  heaven's  blue  height  doth  rise, 
Or  when,  at  sunset,  thickly  fall 
Those  golden  beams  that  brighten  all, 
>  Then  gazing  this  deep  river  o'er 
To  yonder  far-off,  blooming  shore, 

I  think  upon  the  Promised  Land — 
How  I  shall  one  day  pass  the  flood, 
And  e'en  as  on  that  shore  I  stood, 

So  on  its  blissful  borders  stand. 


60  THE   VIEW   ACROSS  THE   RIVER. 

Then  on  those  very  fields  of  green 
Methinks  wing'd,  angel  forms  are  seen, 

Hasting  with  smiles  to  welcome  me ; 
They  draw  me  dripping  from  the  tide, 
Each  strikes  the  bright  harp  by  his  side, 

They  shout  at  my  delivery ! 

Ah !  yonder  shores  of  wood  and  field 
Cannot  in  truth  such  blessings  yield, 

Nor  there  have  heavenly  ones  their  birth : 
'Tis  vain  the  thought !    Though  I  were  there, 
I  still  this  evil  heart  would  bear 

And  meet  but  dwellers  on  the  earth. 
Yet  thus  I  love  midst  visible  things, 
That  busy  hope  which  to  me  brings 

Such  heavenly  sights  as  like  them  seem; 
For  there  is  such  a  better  land, 
And  I  upon  its  shores  shall  stand, 

Eis'n  from  a  darker,  deeper  stream. 


THE  VIEW  ACROSS   THE   RIVER.  61 

Eeceiving  there,  in  Christ,  my  part, 
Sin's  latest  snare  shall  flee  my  heart, 

That  here  with  temptings  doth  oppress ; 
The  Foe  who  here  doth  oft  alarm 
Shall  lose  all  power  to  do  me  harm, 

And  God  my  upward  path  shall  bless. 
Toil  shall  not  there  mix  with  my  song, 
Nor  shall  I,  when  my  task  is  done, 

Find  motives  mingled  so  therein, 
That  e'en  my  work  most  perfect,  must 
Become  a  thing  of  simple  trust, 

Lest  it  be  counted  wholly  sin. 

0  glorious  day !  0  wished  for  morn, 
Still  with  rich  hues  my  skies  adorn, 

But  burn  not  forth  too  dazzling  bright; 
Lest  I  faint  here  'midst  griefs  and  pains, 
Nor  patient  bear  what  yet  remains, 

With  Heaven  so  opened  to  my  sight ! 


62 


SILENT  INFLUENCES. 


The  sunshine  silent  falls  upon  the  bud, 
No  voice  doth  answer,  but  the  secret  cell 
"Within,  enlargeth,  and  the  embryo  hid 
Swells  and  perfects  itself  to  the  full  flower. 
The  writer  sits  in  some  lone  room  apart, 
He  utters  there  no  word,  his  arm  toils  not, 
He  holds  his  pen,  and  as  an  idler  seems ; 
Yet  from  that  quietude  do  thoughts  come  forth 


SILENT  INFLUENCES.  63 

rhat,  as  with  wings,  do  fly  from  heart  to  heart, 
O'er  the  wide  world,  with  moving  influence. 

Et  is  not  by  the  sound  nor  show  without 
We  judge  of  the  result.    He  who  doth  all, 
Curbing  this  fleeting  world  and  all  the  stars, 
Doeth  it  silently.     Canst  thou  stand  forth 
Far  in  the  forest,  when  each  early  shoot 
Peeps  from  the  rugged  bark,  and  every  blade 
From  the  moist  earth  springs  up  in  its  own  place — 
Canst  thou  hear  then  a  whisp'ring  'mong  the  leaves, 
New  waked  to  life?     Or  canst  thou  from  on  high 
Discern  the  voice  that  calls  them  ?    From  the  world 
That  marks  the  limit  of  an  angel's  flight 
To  this  our  lower  world ;  from  this  again 
To  that  most  distant  in  the  opposite  space, 
An  unseen  silent  influence  pervades, 
And  in  harmonious  order  holds  all  things. 


64 


CHRIST'S  HELP  AND  ALL-SUFFICIENCY. 


Easy  'twere  to  work  my  soul's  undoing, 
Did  not  Jesus  guard  Life's  narrow  way; 

Day  by  day  my  wasted  strength  renewing, 
Helping  his  own  precepts  to  obey. 

Or  the  sore  temptation  he  remove th, 
When  he  sees  me  weak  and  prone  to  fall ; 

In  my  bare  escape  his  love  he  proveth, 
As  when  strong  I  triumph  over  all. 


Christ's  help  and  all-sufficiency.  65 

Not  to  me  the  glory  then  remaineth, 

When  some  secret  purpose  to  fulfil, 
Still  He  nerves  my  arm  until  it  gaineth 

Yictories  surpassing  mine  own  skill. 

Nor  should  it  depress,  if  with  His  favor 

To  the  lowliest  station  I  am  led ; 
Or  while  there  my  weak,  sincere  endeavor, 

Thwarted  is  and  naught  accomplished. 

All  mankind  are  willing  to  adore  him 
While  his  service  yields  but  this  world's  gain ; 

Give  me  rather  grace  to  walk  before  him, 
Faithful  still,  though  suffering  loss  and  pain. 

Surely  such  the  Saviour  hath  selected 
On  their  hearts  His  image  to  impress ; 

Shall  I  murmur — wish  myself  rejected 
From  their  number  whom  He  most  doth  bless  ? 


66  Christ's  help  and  all-sufficiency. 

If  I  robbed  were  of  each  earthly  treasure, 
And  meanwhile  my  soul  no  increase  knew ; 

In  such  loss  beholding  His  displeasure, 
I  might  utter  lamentations  due. 

But  though  outwardly  abased,  forsaken, 
"While  within,  Christ's  presence  I  can  find, 

Looking  to  Him,  with  a  trust  ud shaken. 
Not  one  want  shall  move  my  steadfast  mind. 


67 


MOKNING. 


This  is  the  dawning  time.    The  early  light 
That  comes  before  the  sun,  doth  but  dilute 
And  faintly  tinge  the  darkness.     I  awake 
And  hear  no  sound.    Then  on  the  stony  street 
The  wagon  rumbles,  lonely,  from  afar, 
Freighted  with  fruits  from  distant  smiling  fields. 
Soon  passeth  by  the  quick  and  sounding  tread 
Of  the  head-workman,  early  at  his  post. 


68  MORNING. 

The  beams  grow  bright,  and  with  soft  call  arouse 
Thousands  from  sweet  rest !     Now  they  are  let  in 
At  chamber  windows.    Upright  on  the  bed, 
Propped  amid  pillows,  stayed  and  wrapped  about, 
The  baby  babbling  sits,  while  from  their  tasks 
Those  who  around  put  on  their  day's  attire, 
Oft  run  to  chirrup  and  clap  hands  with  him ! 

But  from  the  sick  man's  room  th'  unwelcome  beams 

Are  driven  back,  and  one  imprisoned  ray 

Is  given  entrance.    He  has  found,  at  length, 

The  wished-for  slumber.    Heavily  sounds  his  breath ; 

Th'  array  of  vials  in  disorder  round, 

May  not  be  righted  now.     A  form  steals  in 

On  tiptoe,  casting  first  an  anxious  glance 

Upon  the  sleeper — motions  then  to  her, 

Who  watcheth  by  him  to  her  turn  of  rest. 

Tread  softly!  breathe  not  loud,  lest  he  awake! 

Is  he  a  Christian,  he  for  whom  Death  fights  ? 


MORNING.  69 

0  what  a  mighty  foe,  and  what  small  force 
We  muster  'gainst  him  in  the  battling  hour ! 
A  feeble  woman,  armed  with  mixtures,  draughts, 
Drops  and  dilutions  that  the  well  man  scorns ; 
Is  this  all  we  can  bring?    Must  the  loved  one, 
The  tender  mother  or  the  only  child, 
The  strong  man  or  the  monarch  from  his  throne, 
Come  thus  to  die,  not  compassed  round  with  power, 
But  in  a  darkened  chamber,  all  alone  ? 
Fit  me,  then,  for  this  hour  !     If  earthly  might, 
Or  riches,  or  the  power  of  intellect, 
Can  cope  not  with  it,  wrap  my  soul  about 
With  what  this  King  of  Terrors  cannot  pierce. 
Give  me  the  shield  of  Faith,  wherewith  to  quench 
His  fiery  darts.     To  right  and  left  gird  on 
Armor  of  Righteousness.     Cover  my  head 
With  th'  helmet  of  Salvation.     Plant  my  feet 
Firmly  on  Gospel  ground.     Within  my  hand 
Bestow  that  Sword  which  fights  not  with  the  flesh, 
6 


But  which  is  spiritual,  for  I  here 

Would  rather  win,  than  on  all  fields  beside  ! 


71 


DUSK. 


Thou  scarce  canst  see  by  this  dim  light 
Yonder  where  mingled  shadows  fall, 
Touching  almost  the  ceiling's  height, 
A  nail  driven  part  way  in  the  wall. 
In  years  long  gone — I  count  them  not — 
My  sister  hung  upon  that  spot 
The  cage  that  held  her  singing  bird ; 
Trilling  all  day,  its  notes  were  heard, 


DUSK. 

Seeming  thanksgivings  for  her  care, 
Sending  sweet  music  everywhere. 
Now,  were  she  sitting  by  my  side 

Still,  when  the  recollection  came, 
'Twere  one  that  might  a  time  abide; 

Much  since  hath  changed,  much  is  the  same, 
The  smile  might  greet  it  or  the  tear, 
But — that  sweet  spirit  is  not  here ! 

Is  it  not  strange  that  at  this  hour, 

When  all  her  past  crowds  to  my  breast, 
One  lone  remembrance  comes  with  power 

Eising  undimmed  above  the  rest  ? 
That  of  an  unkind  word  by  me 
"Which  she  once  wept  at,  silently. 
Why  doth  it  thus  come?     'Twas  forgiven, 

And  blotted,  as  I  trust,  above, 
From  the  recording  book  of  heaven. 

Were  there  no  words  of  tender  love 


DUSK.  73 

That,  as  I  muse  to-night  alone, 

Might  bring  me  joy  from  those  years  gone? 

Ah,  not  on  such  an  errand  sent 

Speeds  thither  the  unwelcome  thought, 
For  me  a  better  gift  is  meant, 

To  me  instruction  it  hath  brought. 
The  present  shall  become  the  past, 

Even  as  the  former  years  have  fled, 
May  I  not,  lingering  till  the  last, 

Count  those  still  round  me  with  the  dead? 
The  word  to-day,  told  in  the  ear, 

That  makes  some  wounded  heart  to  burn, 
May,  when  that  heart  shall  not  be  here, 

Back  to  my  bosom,  barbed,  return. 

The  lost  cannot  our  sorrow  know, 

Nor  at  our  call  attend  us  more, 
E'en  though  we  would  but  speak  our  woe, 

And  pardon  for  our  faults  implore. 


74 


But  to  the  living  we  may  prove, 
By  daily  charities  sincere, 

The  Christian's  true  and  lasting  love: 
So,  should  Death's  dreaded  messenger 
First  unto  them  his  summons  bear, 

And  from  our  sight  their  forms  remove, 
Not  self-reproach,  with  torturing  sting, 
Shall  noiseless,  fleet-winged  Memory  bring, 

But  comfort,  e'en  amid  our  tears, 

Shall  rise  with  thoughts  of  bygone  years. 


75 


MIDNIGHT. 


Flickering  within  its  socket,  weak, 

My  candle  scarce  doth  hold  its  flame ; 
It  sinketh  now — now  doth  it  seek, 

Kunning  swift  down  the  wick  again, 
To  draw  new  life  and  sustenance 
As  it  was  wont  to  draw  it  thence. 
Slow  it  returns ,  the  store  is  done, 
Now  but  a  glimmer  'tis  become — ' 
'Tis  fainter,  fainter — it  is  gone! 


76  MIDNIGHT. 

But  the  spark  left  is  not  quite  fled, 
It  sends  forth  wreaths  of  smoke  o'erhead, 
It  varieth  like  the  flame  before — 
Plays  the  same  game  to  hope  once  more 
Till  it  too  darkens,  and  is  dead. 

I  marvel  not  that  men  have  seen, 

Ever  in  this  slight  incident, 
Pictured  that  moment  when  hath  been 

A  summons  to  the  spirit  sent — 
So  doth  the  body  hoard  its  breath, 
And  yield  unwillingly  to  death ; 

But  looking,  let  us  not  forget 
That  all  of  languor  imaged  there 

Is  of  the  flesh — unfolding,  yet, 
The  soul  doth  but  its  wrappings  wear, 

Which,  loosened,  falling  off  at  length, 
Leave  it,  for  glory  or  despair, 

Indued  with  new,  sustaining  strength. 


MIDNIGHT.  77 

Methinks,  at  suck  a  time  and  place 

Did  heavenly  heralds,  as  of  old, 
Meet  and  speak  with  us,  face  to  face, 

I  might  celestial  converse  hold. 
He  who,  by  darkness  compassed  round, 
Slumb'ring  upon  the  desert  ground, 

Saw  angels  in  th'  illumined  air 

Ascending  and  descending  there, 
While  One  above  more  glorious  stood, 
Lay  not  in  deeper  solitude. 

But  this  may  not  be ;  day  nor  night 

Shall  yet  unveil  Him  to  my  sight, 

Who,  from  all  flesh,  hath  hid  in  Light. 

Yet  exiled  here,  far  from  the  skies, 

Groping  midst  this  world's  gloom  about — 

My  lamp  obscured  by  mists  that  rise, 
Not  of  the  Truth,  but  mine  own  doubt, 

I've  said,  To  see  Him  with  mine  eyes, 
0  that  some  path  might  find  Him  out ! 


MIDNIGHT. 

So  foolish  am  I? — Hath  His  word 
Then  ceased?  or  is  His  providence 

"With  daily  utterance  no  more  heard  ? 
Turn  I  from  these  to  grosser  sense? 

Should  some  pure  Seraph,  even  now, 
In  answer  to  my  call  appear, 

Bright  from  the  throne  where  such  do  bow- 
Doth  not  a  still  voice,  yet  more  near 

"Whisper  all  that  I  then  might  hear? 

Thus  might  he  speak :  Though  mine  it  were 
To  minister,  I  could  impart 

To  thee  no  more  abounding  light 

Than  that  now  shed  upon  thine  heart. 

TVandering  long  since  in  rayless  night 
Thy  Saviour  found  thee.     On  a  way 

He  placed  thy  feet  that  upward  led, 
Yet  told  thee  dark  clouds  round  it  lay ; 

Thy  soul  rejoiced,  was  comforted 

Through  darkness  even,  to  hope  for  day. 


MIDNIGHT.  79 

Now,  dost  thou  murmur,  faint  and  pine 
Because  those  promised  clouds  are  thine? 

Think'st  thou  such  mists  can  blind  His  eye, 

Or,  faithless,  He  hath  passed  thee  by? 
Canst  thou  not  trust?     Be  still,  0  man, 

And  when  'midst  shadows  thou  must  wait, 
Know  they  are  part  of  love's  great  plan — 

Kemember  now  thy  first  estate ! 

Weary  not  of  thine  earthly  days — 

Cut  off  from  them,  how  couldst  thou  rear 
An  offering  to  thy  Maker's  praise  ? 

Nor  let  thine  earthly  task  appear 
Beneath  thee ;  and  in  secret  cry, 

All  things  are  brief  and  fleeting  here — 
My  soul  doth  loathe  them,  let  me  die ! 

Did  he  who  first  unearthed  the  gem 

That  decks  some  royal  diadem, 
Or  dug  the  gold  that  clasps  it  now 
Above  a  monarch's  lofty  brow, 


80  MIDNIGHT. 

Know  then,  toward  what  high  aim  he  wrought, 
Or  see  that  fair  Crown  in  his  thought? 

So  is  thy  task  to  thee  unknown; 
But  when  it  shall  be  done  at  last, 
These  fleshly  garments  from  thee  cast, 

And  earth's  vast  house  of  toil  o'erthrown, 

Its  full  end  shall  to  thee  be  shown; 
Each  dark  day's  purpose  shalt  thou  see 
In  some  joy  of  Eternity. 

Nor  wouldst  thou  then,  that  one  sad  care 

Of  all  so  grievous  now  to  bear, 
Had  been  removed  or  made  more  light, 
For  plainly  opened  to  thy  sight 

Shall  be  the  mystic  union 

Which  joins,  when  sorrows  here  are  done, 

Earth's  woes  and  Heaven's  bliss,  in  one. 


81 


THE  BEAUTIFYING  POWER. 


The  moss  that  clings  about  the  prostrate  trunk, 

Clothing  it,  as  in  regal  velvet  dress, 

While  it  decays  where  once  it  towering  stood, 

Turns  the  dead,  loathsome  ruin  to  a  thing 

That  feeds  life  and  becomes  an  ornament. 

The  gloomy  forest  is  adorned  by  it 

Rather  than  marred.     So  where  the  barren  rock 

Lifts  its  forbidding  form  against  the  side 


82  THE    BEAUTIFYING    POWER. 

Of  some  steep  hill,  the  bulwark  of  its  height, 

Not  long  it  bare  remains.     The  Columbine 

In  clusters  here  and  there  on  every  ledge, 

Up  to  the  very  summit,  finds  a  home, 

And  decks  its  dusky  face  with  scarlet  flowers. 

There  is  a  Power  pervading  all  the  earth 

That  quick  transmuteth  homeliest  things  to  fair, 

And  makes  of  necessary  change  and  wreck 

New  beauty.    If  the  mind  unprejudiced 

Might  contemplate  the  works  that  power  displays, 

It  would  adore  the  Intellect. Supreme 

"Who  is  their  author,  for  the  evidence 

They  are  themselves  of  such  a  Sovereign  Head. 

But  what  man  fain  would  imitate,  is  left 

Without  an  author,  by  man's  unbelief! 

If  he  who  counterfeits  the  landscape  well 

Grows  famous,  by  his  hand's  mere  copying  skill, 

What  shall  be  said  of  His  exhaustless  thought 

Who  planned  the  mountains;  laid  the  vales  between; 


THE   BEAUTIFYING   POWER.  83 

Slothed  them  with  verdure ;  watered  them  with  streams? 
'lis  was  the  first  design  of  every  flower; 
Te  mingled  all  their  hues.     The  landscape  green, 
\,nd  desert  waste,  were  robed  as  He  saw  fit. 
Te  led  the  river  to  the  mountain's  verge 
iVnd  poured  it  forth,  the  sounding  cataract ! 


84 


THE  SNOW-STOKM. 


The  feathery  flakes  are  dancing  in  the  air ; 
How  subtle  must  that  influence  be  which  draws 
Each  one  down  from  its  flight!     So  slight  they  seem, 
The  viewless  winds  might  be  their  dwelling-place 
Where  they  should  still  abide.     Within  my  glance 
Millions  now  slow  descend ;  they  whirl — turn  back, 
Climb  toward  the  skies  again — far  from  their  course 
Are  driven  ere  they  reluctant  touch  the  earth ; 


THE   SNOW-STORM.  85 

Yet  o'er  this  field  the  spotless  covering 
Rests,  smoothly  spread,  as  though  some  master  hand 
Had,  after,  levelled  it,  or  counted  out 
The  layers  in  each  pile.     From  yonder  cloud 
O'erhanging  us,  the  silent  messengers  fall, 
Which  thus  doth  waste  itself  and  back  return 
Its  substance  to  the  earth,  whence  it  was  drawn. 
From  the  deep  sea — the  broad  and  mighty  river, 
Or  rivulets  and  dews,  it  woo'd  you  up, 
Ye  countless  drops,  now  fettered  in  my  sight, 
Each  in  its  crystal  prison.     Oh,  how  fair 
This  wintry  scene !     Not  that  it  should  endure, 
Else  would  it  tire  the  eye  and  bolt  the  doors 
Of  earth's  most  bounteous  storehouse;  but  thus  shown 
'Midst  nature's  ever-shifting  imagery, 
How  beautiful !     Nor  beautiful  alone, 
But  'neath  these  white  folds,  closely  covered  lies 
The  autumn's  wheat,  unreached  by  nipping  winds ; 
So  that  th'  untainted  sheet  a  robe  becomes — ■ 
7 


86  THE   SNOW-STORM. 

A  fitting  garment — that  doth  nurture  life. 
Flung  o'er  the  hills  and  'midst  the  wild  ravines, 
It  melts  and  gently  trickles,  drop  by  drop, 
Into  the  secret  cisterns  of  the  springs, 
Which  hoard  the  precious  store  for  summer's  need. 
He  who  doth  shiver  with  the  cold,  and  fault 
The  snow's  thick  fall  to-day,  shall  bathe  his  brow 
Yet  in  some  fountain,  'neath  a  sultry  noon, 
And  though  he  knew  it  not,  be  blessed  in  it! 

But  what  is  there  in  this  our  fallen  world, 

"Which  bringeth  benefits,  and  in  itself 

Is  harmless — that  hath  from  its  first  intent 

Not  been  diverted  by  our  sins?    The  breath 

That  cools  the  sick  man's  cheek  hastes  on  its  way     | 

Till  it  becomes  the  tempest,  dealing  death ; 

The  dew-drop  that  scarce  bends  the  pendent  flower, 

Once  helped  to  drown  the  mountain-tops.     So  ye 

Soft,  feathery  snow-flakes,  gathered  high  above 


THE   SNOW-STORM.  87 

Some  sleeping  hamlet,  when  the  breath  of  Spring 

Hath  loosed  your  frozen  grasp,  come  thundering  down 

The  mountain  Avalanche  !     Or  fruitful  vales, 

Between  high  lifted  peaks,  ye  do  fill  up, 

Denying  the  soft  earth  to  hungering  mouths 

And  willing  hands.     But  further  toward  the  poles 

Ye  sea  and  land  wrap  in  enduring  bonds, 

Capping  the  globe  with  ice.     What  clothes  this  field 

In  white — this  landscape  in  an  innocent  robe 

That  guards  the  embryo  root  and  melting  pours 

Kefreshing  drops  o'er  all  beneath,  there  spreads 

A  stony,  frigid  wilderness  afar, 

Nursing  fierce  storms — sending  them  o'er  the  earth 

On  errands  of  destruction. 

'Midst  thy  works 
I  dwell,  0  Lord !  their  kindly  influences 
Eeceiving,  and  their  countless  visible  charms 
Looking  upon  with  joy;  yet  well  I  know 
There  is  not  one  but,  clothed  with  power  by  thee, 


3  THE   SNOW-STORM. 

May  in  a  moment  wound  me.     Still  I  live, 
Not  fearful,  but  assured  that  Thy  command 
O'erruleth  all;  rejoicing  in  the  word 
That  every  creature  workettffor  his  good 
Who  loveth  thee,  I  wait  from  day  to  day 
Their  various  messages ;  nor  would  I  dread 
That,  which  at  last,  by  some  such  hand  may  come, 
Calling  me  from  this  changing  world  below 
To  where  no  winter  comes  or  storms  e'er  blow ; 
But  where  the  soul,  by  guiltless  blood  made  clean, 
Shall  Him  behold,  whom  here  it  loved  unseen, 
And  in  His  presence  saved,  life's  conflict  o'er, 
Ne'er  know  of  cold,  nor  heat,  nor  tempest  more. 


89 


SINGLENESS  OF  PURPOSE. 


The  wild  flower  of  the  forest  hangs 
Its  purple  head  mid  deepest  shade, 

Swift  comes  the  bee  on  sounding  wing 
And  sips  the  sweets  within  it  laid. 

His  weight  bends  down  the  slender  stalk, 
While  gathering  his  load  he  swings, 

Now  almost  to  the  sod  beneath, 
Now  from  it  borne,  aloft  he  springs  ! 


90  SINGLENESS    OF    PURPOSE. 

Xot  long  he  waits,  nor  at  each  flower 
He  rifles,  when  his  task  is  done, 

Doth  wait  to  mark  its  varied  tints 
Or  count  again  his  treasures  won. 

But  stayed  not,  seeking  more,  he  flies 

O'er  waving  field,  through  wood  and  glen, 

And  when  his  glossy  sides  are  full, 
Home  hastens  to  the  hive  again. 

So  while  life's  ever  onward  march, 
Through  checkered  seasons  I  pursue, 

May  I  keep  uppermost  in  thought 
The  service  laid  on  me  to  do. 

May  pleasures  found  on  duty's  path, 
Like  wild  flowers  yielding  nectar  sweet, 

Nor  woes,  that  spring  by  the  same  road, 
Divert  my  steadfast  going  feet ! 


SINGLENESS    OF    PURPOSE.  91 

But  faithful  to  my  Saviour's  cause, 
And  true  to  those  with  whom  I  share 

Its  labors — till  the  work  is  done, 
May  I  my  full  proportion  bear. 

Then  shall  I  roam  through  endless  days 
Where  toil  mars  not  the  pathway  blest, 

Nor  sin  th'  exulting  soul  betrays : 

But  where  the  soul  its  God  obeys 
And,  in  obedience,  finds  Eest. 


02 


THE  PRESENT. 


The  Present,  with  its  portion,  though  that  be 
Increased  an  hundred  fold  from  days  gone  by, 
Seems  ill  provided,  and  we  still  go  poor. 
What  once  was  coveted,  now  being  won, 
Is  valued  not — 'tis  needful  to  be  prized 
That  it  should  still  lie  just  beyond  our  reach. 
.  Poor  recompense  to  Him  who  gives  us  all 
And  marks  th'  effect,  what  larger  gratitude 


THE    PRESENT.  93 

.  Or  quickened  growth  in  grace.    Let  it  not  be 
Thus  with  my  heart.     As  one  cast  from  the  wreck 
While  he  stands  dripping  on  the  rocky  coast, 
And  sees  his  fellow's  lifeless  form  washed  in, 
Feels  grateful  still,  tho'  he  some  wealth  hath  lost— 
So  let  me  feel,  and  gaze  still  at  the  want 
That  I  am  saved  from — at  the  penury, 
Disease,  and  woe,  on  millions  round  me  laid, 
Eather  than  midst  so  great  deliverance 
Kepine  or  murmur  for  one  good  gift  more  ! 


94 


THE  TEACHER  TAUGHT. 


Daily,  to  my  froward  little  child, 

Am  I  pointing  out  the  better  way, 
Teaching  to  be  humble,  patient,  mild, 
,   Ever  for  a  heart  renewed  to  pray. 

But  how  often,  even  while  I  speak, 

Conscience  echoes  back  the  warning  word ; 

Do  I  for  myself  these  graces  seek  ? 

Is  my  ceaseless  prayer,  ascending,  heard  ? 


THE   TEACHER   TAUGHT.  95 

In  the  very  faults  that  I  reprove, 

Angrily,  perchance,  with  look  severe, 

Mingling  harsh  rebuke  with  little  love, 
Mine  own  errors,  imaged  forth,  appear. 

And  if  they  the  infant  breast  defile, 
Odious  in  their  least  confirmed  degree, 

How  much  more  the  measure  of  their  guile 
Shows  matured  and  fully  ripe  in  me  ! 

Oh,  I  am  unworthy  to  fulfil 

This  exalted  trust,  to  me  assigned ;    » 
Who  am  I  to  curb  the  rebel  will  ? 

"Who  to  reillume  the  darkened  mind  ? 

Yet  I  may  not  lay  this  trust  aside, 

Nor  refuse  these  souls  who  claim  my  care ; 

Though  more  guilty,  their  guilt  I  must  chide; 
Hurt  myself,  their  wounds  I  must  repair. 


96  THE   TEACHER   TAUGHT. 

But  how  should  it  calm  each  angry  thought, 
And  lend  meekness  to  parental  sway, 

That,  while  these  to  me  for  stripes  are  brought, 
I  deserve  to  suffer  more  than  they ! 


97 


SEVERITY  AND  GENTLENESS. 


While  slumber  close  sealed  up  my  sight, 
Methought  from  some  far  aerie's  height 
An  Eagle  touched  me  in  his  flight ! 
I  seized  the  bird,  and  struggling  tried 
T'  imprison  him  fast  by  my  side : 
Long  did  he  furious  battle  wage ! 
Hurt,  I  oft  struck  at  him  in  rage ! 
But  while  I  wounded  him  the  more 
Deeper  my  bleeding  side  he  tore, 


98  SEVERITY    AND   GENTLENESS. 

Until  at  length,  I,  strangely  moved, 
Stroked  his  fierce  head  as  one  who  loved ; 
When  lo,  he  ceased — he  lay  at  rest, 
Harmless,  at  peace,  upon  my  breast, 
And  I  saw  in  the  vision  fair, 
Now  'twas  a  Dove  that  nestled  there !    . 


99 


THE  BUTTERFLY. 


While  sings  the  grasshopper,  and  the  bright  sun 
Pours  o'er  the  golden  grain  his  ripening  heat, 

And  through  green  valleys  hiddemstreamlets  run 
Wide  parted,  all  in  ocean's  depths  to  meet : 

Then  the  frail  Butterfly  with  trembling  flight, 
And  wavy  track  thro'  the  midsummer  air, 

O'er  field  and  highway  in  the  workman's  sight    . 
Flits  like  a  thought  unwritten,  yet  most  fair ! 


100  THE   BUTTERFLY. 

Look,  where  it  lights  upon  some  clover  head, 
Swaying  its  wings,  as  to  its  own  faint  breath ! 

Now  lifted  up,  now  lowered  and  outspread, 
They  show  the  tints  above  and  underneath. 

Bring  hither  the  great  artist ;  let  him  tell 
If  with  his  pencil  dipped  in  every  hue, 

He  could  such  tiny  pinion  deck  so  well, 
Or  so  with  beauty  a  winged  fly  indue? 

Bare  jewels  for  the  brow  of  dust  we  set; 

With  robes  these  dying  forms  we  decorate ; 
Each  rich  adornment  man  hath  fashioned  yet, 

By  contrast,  telleth  of  his  low  estate. 

But  He  whose  power  doth  all  those  works  prepare, 
That  clothe  with  glory,  sea  and  earth  and  sky, 

Unto  the  least,  of  such  grace  gives  a  share, 
That  it  proclaims  His  Sovereign  Majesty. 


101 


GOD'S  GREATEST  WORK. 


Thy  visible  works,  0  Lord,  display  all  forms 
That  matter,  lifeless  and  inanimate, 
Can  shape  to  shadow  thy  perfections  forth 
And  Power  Supreme.    The  mountains  where  they  rear 
Their  peaks,  until  they  challenge  the  swift  clouds ; 
The  valleys  spread  beneath  and  in  their  laps 
Holding  the  food  of  nations ;  the  deep  sea 
Peopled  by  viewless  myriads ;  the  skies 
8 


102  god's  greatest  work. 

"With  store  as  numberless  of  shining  worlds ; 

These  all  proclaim  Thy  majesty,  but  all 

Might  in  their  present  grandeur  be  outspread, 

And  yet  tell  nothing  of  Redeeming  Love. 

'Tis  in  thy  death  alone  I  may  behold 

That  great  Salvation  it  hath  wrought  for  me  ! 

And  therefore,  more  than  all  the  rest,  I  prize 

This  Thy  most  wondrous  work.     I  look  abroad 

And  feast  upon  that  varied,  rich  display 

Which  men  call  Nature,  but  from  it  soon  turn 

Unsatisfied,  to  gaze  upon  the  Cross. 

For  Nature's  charms  are  fleeting,  and  the  time, 

Appointed  them,  makes  haste  to  be  fulfilled ; 

But  Thy  Death,  in  its  gifts  unto  my  soul, 

And  in  its  revelation  of  thy  love, 

Shall  then  but  be  unfolded,  when  these  scenes 

Dissolve  midst  flames ;  while  I,  with  Heaven's  glad  hosts! 

Strike  my  new  harp,  in  rapture,  to  the  theme ! 


103 


PH(EBE  ANN  JACOBS'  COTTAGE  * 


Within  this  little  house  alone 

Dwelt  one  who  to  the  heavens  hath  gone. 

Of  lowliest  race,  to  bondage  born, 

No  lofty  deeds  her  life  adorn ; 

She  rested  here  at  each  day's  close, 

Here  with  the  morn  to  labor  rose, 

Poor  was  she,  and  her  dwelling  poor, 

I  would  have  blushed  to  change  with  her; 

*  See  American  Tract  Society's  Tract  No.  .r>3fi. 


104  PHCEBE  ANN  JACOBS'   COTTAGE. 

But  where  on  high  the  angels  bow, 
Would  I  might  share  her  mansion  now  ! 

Oft  have  I  seen  her  toiling  nigh 

Or,  thoughtless,  oft  have  passed  her  by 

And  spoken  kindly,  for  all  knew 

Her  blameless  walk,  her  goodness  true ; 

Yet  did  I  never  realize 

That  here  dwelt  one  so  near  the  skies. 

The  hushed  and  silent  midnight  air 
From  here  hath  borne  aloft  her  prayer ; 
The  dim  faint  dawn,  the  middle  day, 
Evening,  that  sweeps  day's  beams  away, 
The  task  yet  scarce  begun,  or  o'er, 
Have  seen  her  close  this  humble  door, 
And  go  within,  alone,  to  pray. 
This  very  room  that  stoops  so  low, 
Knew  joys  the  Palace  scarce  may  know. 


PH(EBE  ANN  JACOBS'   COTTAGE.  105 

"When  to  the  waiting  heart  prayer  brings 
To  banquet  there,  the  King  of  kings. 

It  was  within  these  narrow  walls, 
At  some  unknown  hour  of  the  night, 

Death  stood,  as  when  the  soul  he  calls, 
Slow  rising  on  the  failing  sight. 

Throughout  the  land,  an  hour  before, 

He  knocked  at  many  a  rich  man's  door, 

And  heard  the  cry  of  agony, 

The  prayer  within:  Oh,  pass  me  by! 

But  when  he  reached  this  lowly  cot, 

The  prayer  was,  Ah,  pass  by  me  not ! 

And  Death  himself  stood  rev'rently. 

Tell  me,  my  soul,  now  none  are  nigh, 
And  we  may  commune  secretly, 
Though  thou  wert  offered  Genius,  Power, 
Fame,  Riches,  for  the  dying  hour, 


106  PHCKBE  ANN  JACOBS'   COTTAGE. 

Wouldst  thou  not  all  of  them  forego, 
And  rather  want  and  suffering  know, 
If  but  at  last,  his  dreaded  dart 
Might  come  so  welcomed  to  thy  heart? 
Yet  poverty  and  suffering 
Cannot,  themselves,  such  blessing  bring, 
Nor,  without  them,  is  it  denied; 
For  poor  for  rich,  for  small  for  great, 
For  thee,  whate'er  thine  earthly  state, 
Jesus,  a  willing  Saviour  died. 

But  thou  must  seek  his  follower's  part, 
And  to  his  service  yield  thy  heart, 
Whatever  else  thou  hast,  or  art, 

Counting  for  Him,  but  loss ; 
Then  shalt  thou  know,  in  life  and  death, 
Their  peace  who,  with  Him,  walk  by  faith ; 

Their  joy,  who  bear  His  Cross. 


107 


THE  EAGLE. 


Between  two  mountains,  o'er  a  river's  bed, 
An  Eagle  rose  one  cloudless  summer's  morn, 

In  widening  circles  sailing  overhead, 

At  each  majestic  sweep,  still  upward  borne. 

I  silent  stood  upon  a  rocky  height, 

That  hung  the  water's  troubled  bosom  o'er, 

And  watched  him  rise,  till  on  my  aching  sight 
His  form  appeared  against  the  void  no  more. 


108  THE   EAGLE. 

Then  looking  down  again  from  the  far  blue 
Upon  the  river,  through  the  empty  air, 

Still  it  was  beautiful,  and  yet  I  knew 
Something  was  wanting — it  had  shone  more  fair! 

Methought,  Thou  art  an  emblem,  soaring  bird, 
Of  the  true  Christian  pilgrim  on  his  way; 

His  viewless  path,  his  sleepless  step  unheard, 
Tend  ever  upward  toward  the  perfect  day ! 

And  as  I  miss  thee  now,  and  all  this  scene, 
For  thy  departure,  saddens  in  mine  eyes, 

So,  where  Christ's  faithful  follower  hath  been, 
All  things  are  losers  as  he  seeks  the  skies. 


109 


THE  SEA-COAST  CAYE. 


Under  a  rocky  coast,  the  hunter,  borne 
In  his  slight  skiff,  a  narrow  opening  sees, 
Left  by  descending  tides.     With  trembling  hand, 
Slowly  and  watchfully,  he  entereth  in, 
Stooping  to  the  low  entrance.    Lo,  how  grand 
A  temple  for  such  door !     The  cave  ascends 
To  a  vast  height,  while  he  sits  silently 
Booking  on  the  black  billow !    From  his  side 
Up,  up  aloft  with  glittering  crystals  hung, 


110  THE   SEA-COAST    CAVE. 

The  walls  do  climb,  till  meeting  o'er  his  head, 
They  cover  him  with  shadows.     Where  the  waves 
Break  gently  'gainst  the  rock,  each  blow  resounds, 
And  he,  one  word  of  wonder  uttering,  hears 
Unnumbered  voices  from  th'  inclosing  night. 
Still  borne  along  in  awe — yet  grown  more  bold— 
A  distant  sound  salutes  his  ear:  he  floats 
Past  many  a  dripping  crag — 'neath  arches  grand, 
Till,  from  a  steep  before  him,  waters  fall. 
The  scene  in  dusky  beauty  is  disclosed ! 
From  the  dark  bowels  of  the  earth  they  come, 
Here  poured  forth  through  a  dim  way  to  the  sea. 
A  snowy  shaft  of  Stalactite  stands  up, 
Beside  the  cat'ract,  o'ergrown  with  some  vine. 
0  Nature,  how  deep  dost  thou  touch  the  soul, 
And  how  calls  thy  mute  language !     As  these  caves 
Burrow  beneath  man's  knowledge,  from  the  day, 
So  speaks  that  language,  witnessing  of  God, 
In  the  heart's  depths,  where  even  we  look  not ! 


Ill 


PRAISE. 


As  everything  in  Nature,  from  the  star 

That  sparkles  in  the  zenith,  to  the  worm 

That  on  the  earth  I  tread  beneath  my  feet, 

Telleth  of  a  Creator — and  as  more 

We  do  unfold  its  parts,  it  telleth  more 

Of  that  Creator's  wisdom,  goodness,  power; 

So  I  could  wish  that  every  thought  drawn  forth, 

And  image,  from  the  storehouse  of  my  mind, 

Might  speak  thanksgiving !  and  as  from  the  depths, 


112  PRAISE. 

Deeper  within  that  treasury  it  was  born, 

So  it  might  higher  rise  in  rendering  praise. 

Praise  is  the  one  great  utterance !  the  song 

Of  all  things  round  me !     Nature  in  her  haunts, 

And  man  as  I  behold  him,  for  the  sum 

Of  all  his  acts  and  checkered  history 

Is  the  fulfilling  of  a  supreme  will. 

Not  that  God  moves  to  sin,  but  man  intent 

Upon  his  purpose,  wealth  or  pleasure  here, 

Chooseth  his  way,  but  God  appoints  the  end ! 

God's  enemies  do  praise  him,  for  their  zeal 

In  guilt  he  turneth  to  his  own  account, 

Making  them  strive  unconsciously  for  good. 

The  wicked  have  been  scourges  in  his  hand 

To  scourge  their  fellows ;  or  their  stripes  laid  on 

Have  humbled  saints  whom  pride  held  back  from  heaven. 

The  righteous  praise  Him,  even  when  they  fall, 

And  miss  the  path,  in  that  true  penitence 

Which  weeping  doth  retrace  each  erring  step. 


113 


PKAYER. 


Oh,  wondrous  Power,  by  which  alone, 

I,  born  to  want  and  poverty, 
May  climb  to  Heaven's  far  courts  unknown. 
Yea,  pass  up  to  the  very  Throne,  r 

How  am  I  poor  possessing  thee? 


114 


PRAYER. 


I  stand  on  earth,  thou  lift'st  me  hence— 
I  reach  to  those  blest  heights  divine, 
I  touch  their  loftiest  eminence, 
I  joys  immortal  pluck  from  thence, 
And  fill  my  bosom — they  are  mine ! 


115 


PEACE  IN  TROUBLE. 


Among  the  wonders  of  God's  power 
Is  that  it  can  bring  us  peace, 

While  the  dreaded  blow  descends, 
While  the  joys  we  cherished  cease. 

Tis  not  that  the  stroke  is  light, 
Or  that  we  should  count  it  small; 

But  the  grace  that  with  it  comes 
Sanctifies  and  sweetens  all. 


116  PEACE   IN   TROUBLE. 

Yet  this  blessing  is  reserved 
Only  for  the  smitten  heart ; 

He  alone  the  balm  may  taste 
Who  hath  felt  the  bitter  smart. 

Thou  may'st  less  of  sorrow  know, 
It  may  be  high  heaped  o'er  me, 

But  a  feast  for  me  is  spread 
That  was  never  spread  for  thee. 

Not  that  I  am  thus  upheld, 
While  thy  steps  are  left  to  slide ; 

Mine  are  heavier  weights  of  grief, 
Mine  are  fuller  joys  beside. 

Why  should  I  from  trouble  shrink, 
Or  new  woes  refuse  to  bear, 

If  they  are  Christ's  messengers, 

Charged  with  blessings  rich  and  rare  ? 


PEACE  IN  TROUBLE.  117 

Not  beneath  unclouded  skies, 

Not  midst  smooth  prosperity, 
Doth  it  please  our  risen  Lord 

We  his  form  most  plain  should  see. 

But  when  storm  and  tempest  blow, 

Then  he  calls  us  by  our  name ; 
While  beneath  us  rolls  the  flood, 

While  around  us  roars  the  flame. 


118 


AWAKING  AT  NIGHT. 


I  woke  far  in  the  silent  night, 
The  taper  burned  upon  the  floor; 

Methought :  Thus  may  return  my  sight 
When  I  shall  wake  to  sleep  no  more. 

Suppose  One  at  my  bedside  rose, 
And  said,  Thy  life  has  passed  away ; 

Morn  shall  for  thee  no  light  disclose, 
Nor  usher  in  returning  day. 


AWAKING  AT  NIGHT.  119 

Just  as  thou  wast,  in  all  the  same, 

Yet  in  thy  sleep  insensibly, 
Swiftly  this  night  thy  spirit  came 

From  time  into  Eternity. 

Oh !  what  deep  anguish  would  it  cost 

To  have,  for  years  of  earthly  care, 
Nothing,  in  place  of  all  then  lost, 

No  treasure  laid  up  for  me  there ; 
No  Friend,  no  Advocate,  alone 

I  to  appear  before  the  Throne ! 

Take  it  to  heart,  my  perilled  soul, 

Nor  these  as  idle  fancies  deem, 
That  like  the  midnight  mists  uproll 

Dissolved  with  morning's  earliest  beam. 

Soon  shalt  thou  come  into  that  state, 
And  fears  now  dim,  obscured,  afar, 


120  AWAKING  AT   NIGHT* 

There  all  disclosed  thee  await, 

Brought  nearer  than  thy  joys  now  are. 

Trust  not  in  life.    How  few  of  all 
The  millions  that  have  passed  away 

Eeceived,  when  they  looked  for,  the  call, 
Or  met  prepared  the  fatal  day! 


121 


UNBELIEF. 


I  have  been  tempted  to  repine,  and  doubt 
Ever  comes  nearly  yoked  with  discontent ; 
For  if  I  murmur  and  reproach  my  lot, 
Though  I  refuse  to  speak  the  open  charge, 
Yet  he  who  shapes  that  lot  goes  not  unblamed. 
Can  I  esteem  this  life  bestowed  on  me, 
As  but  an  evil  gift,  and  look  upon 
The  pain  that  sometimes  wounds  it.  as  a  thiDg 


122  UNBELIEF. 

That  more  than  weighs  down  all  its  part  of  good — 
Can  I  thus  judge,  and  daily  from  His  hand 
Eeceive  my  portion,  honoring  my  God? 
Beware,  my  soul !  thou  hast  an  enemy 
Who  comes  not  undisguised  with  open  front, 
But  who,  while  thou  eomplainest  doth  steal  in, 
And  where  from  Heaven  hath  been  implanted  Faith, 
Nurtures  the  hidden  seeds  of  unbelief. 

Oh  what  a  magic  glass  the  Tempter  hath, 
By  which  our  sorrows  do  as  worlds  appear, 
Our  blessings  but  as  scattered  grains  of  sand! 
Destroy  his  wiles,  0  Father,  and  give  light 
To  see  the  kind  apportioning^  of  thy  hand. 
Let  me,  who  do  as  Truth  adore  thy  ways, 
Ne'er  seek  th'  unfolding  of  those  ways  from  him 
Who  is  to  Truth  the  foe.     All  troubles  here 
Help  me  to  bear  as  burdens  that  are  light 
When  weighed  against  my  true  and  just  desert. 


UNBELIEF.  123 

And  0,  more  than  the  rest,  arm  me  against 

That  dark  allurement  which  would  lead  me  forth, 

Finite,  into  the  infinite  abyss 

Of  secret  purposes,  known  but  to  Thee, 

Lest  I  should,  there,  demand  things  unrevealed 

And  all  too  high.    As  but  a  little  child 

Make  me  in  simple  and  unquestioning  faith. 

Rob  me  of  whate'er  seems  to  be  a  gift 

(But  is,  in  truth,  my  poverty  and  want) 

If  it  would  bare  what  thou  still  keepest  veiled, 

Or  for  my  blindness,  lessen  filial  love. 


124 


WHO  HATH  PRESERVED  ME. 


I  know  that  had  I  tempted  been 
At  many  a  point  along  my  way, 

I  should  have  fallen  from  the  faith, 
Or  sinned  beneath  the  open  day 

Of  gospel  truth  and  gospel  light, 

And  changed  their  glorious  noon  to  night. 


WHO    HATH    PRESERVED    ME.  125 

It  was  not  that  I  shunned  the  ill, 

Or  held  in  check  the  bad  desire ; 
I  relished  sin,  and  rather  sought 

To  rouse  anew  its  slumbering  fire  ; 
But  thou  didst  bind  my  hands  in  toil, 
Or  wily  adversaries  foil. 

So,  when  I  look  upon  the  past, 

And  trace  the  steps  already  trod, 
I  find  my  footprints  on  the  brink 

Where  by  the  dread  abyss  I  stood, 
And  know  it  was  against  my  will 
They  were  held  from  advancing  still. 

As  he  who  holds  his  helpless  child 

When  danger  or  the  foe  alarms, 
Now  guiding  his  unwary  feet, 

Now  bearing  him  within  his  arrns, 
So  God  hath  held  my  hand  thus  far 
Through  all  sin's  life-long,  truceless  war. 


126  WHO    HATH   PRESERVED   ME. 

But  this  was  no  more  than  his  love 
At  first  did  for  me,  when  it  gave 

To  a  rebellious  spirit,  lost, 

Eepentance,  pardon,  faith  to  save, 

Which  not  my  erring  heart  e'er  sought, 

But  his  far-reaching  mercy  brought. 

Brought  me  at  first,  and  turned  my  feet, 
From  where  they  wandered  far  astray, 

Into  the  narrow  Path  of  Life  ; 

Then,  led  them  up  that  Heavenward  way, 

And  yet  shall  lead,  until  I  rise, 

On  Mercy's  wings,  borne  to  the  skies. 


127 


THE  SECRET  SIN. 


Can  I  in  secret  cherish  now  this  Sin, 
And  hope  to  reap  not,  some  time,  punishment? 
What  though  I  it  confess  not  to  myself, 
And  utter  forth  anew  each  morn  a  prayer 
Against  the  tempter,  when  as  eve  comes  on 
I  welcome  him  again  with  smiling  look  ? 
Is  there  uncertainty  or  blinding  doubt 
Between  me  and  my  fault  ?     Can  I  not  tell 
Whether  'tis  mine  or  laid  on  me  unknown  ? 


128  THE    SECRET    SIN. 

Ah  yes,  the  turning  of  my  ear  away 
From  the  loud  condemnation  of  my  heart, 
Drowns  not  that  inward  sense  which  needs  no  tongue 
To  tell  me  I  am  guilty !    And  if  guilt 
I  thus  permit  to  spread  with  clinging  root, 
I  know  with  blood  it  must  be  plucked  at  length* 
The  terms  whereon  we  hold  our  inward  peace 
Have  not  been  changed,  nor  is  the  sleepless  eye 
That  marks  each  taker  of  Christ's  covenant, 
Dimmed  that  it  cannot  see.     His  chastening  arm 
Still  doth  exist  and  hoard  its  dreaded  strength, 
When  nothing  hurts,  and  we,  secure,  sin  on, 
As  in  the  moment  when  descends  its  blow ! 
What  then  is  needed  ?    That  these  wav'rings  cease 
Between  indulgence  and  infirm  regret: 
That  I  let  conscience  cry  into  my  ear, 
How  but  to  taste  of  what  we  dare  not  drink, 
Partakes  in  the  true  nature  of  the  deed 
Of  the  full  crime,  and  shares  its  penalty. 


THE    SECRET    SIN.  129 

For  look,  my  soul,  how  thou  art  hemmed  within 

Cherished  possessions  !     These  are  all  a  mark 

For  the  correcting  shaft,  or  may  become 

As  instruments  of  torture.    Are  there  not 

Some  bound  to  thee  by  such  close  union 

They  seem  to  be  not  of  a  separate  life, 

But  part  of  self,  and  self's  most  tender  part? 

Let  danger  touch  them — or  but  breathe  upon, 

How  dost  thou  tremble  !     Pleasures  that  have  led 

Thee  upon  doubtful  paths  for  many  years, 

Holding  thee  chained  by  their  returning  spell, 

Do  in  that  moment  lose  their  prolonged  power, 

Their  fascinations  turned  to  loathed  defects, 

Thou  hatest  them — because  linked  with  the  thought 

Of  retribution  now  poured  on  the  head 

Of  one  whose  wounds  bleed  chiefly  in  thyself! 

Yet  may  such  pay  the  forfeit,  if  the  love 

Thou  hast  for  Him  who  bids  thee  put  away 

All  known  sin  for  His  sake,  can  move  thee  not. 


130 


WITHOUT  AND  WITH  THE  CROSS. 


While,  at  my  ease,  I  trod  the  Christian  course, 
With  many  good  gifts  clustering  round  my  lot, 

Prone  to  forget  them,  or  their  heavenly  source, 
That  peace  I  should  have  known,  I  tasted  not. 

Some  cares  were  left  that  I  would  have  removed, 
Some  weaknesses  that  I  would  have  made  strong, 

Some  things  in  doubt  remained,  I  would  have  proved— 
Much  was  there  in  my  portion  that  seemed  wrong ; 


WITHOUT   AND   WITH   THE   CROSS.  131 

So  that  although  I  daily  offered  up 
My  thanks  to  the  Great  Giver,  and  confessed 

I  had  a  full,  an  overflowing  cup, 
Yet  did  I  go,  in  truth,  as  one  unblessed. 

Thus  was  it  till  upon  a  time  there  came 

A  cloud  o'er  my  horizon.     I  discerned 
A  threatened  grief  afar,  which  but  to  name 

My  brightest  morn  to  gloomy  midnight  turned. 

Oh,  then,  I  saw  those  small  adversities, 

Which  had  from  greater  good  withdrawn  mine  eyes, 
Were  as  the  spots  the  blinded  gazer  sees, 

Upon  the  sun  at  noonday  in  the  skies  ! 

I  cried,  in  earnest  prayer,  but  this  remove, 
And  discontent  shall  spoil  my  peace  no  more ; 

Restore  me  as  I  was :  my  life  shall  prove 
That  gratitude  now  felt,  withheld  before. 


132  WITHOUT   AND  WITH   THE   CROSS. 

I  had  the  boon  I  asked.    The  sorrow  feared 
Nor  nearer  drew.     The  cloud  that  rose  in  sight 

Dissolved  again,  and  all  serene  appeared, 

As  ere  it  first  came  forth,  and  yet  more  bright. 

And  loud  were  my  thanksgivings,  but  ere  long 
The  memory  of  this  great  deliverance, 

Dimmed  by  degrees  and  lapsing  back  to  wrong, 
My  heart  repined  and  murmurs  came  from  thence. 

When  this  I  noted,  while  my  conscious  sin 
Brought  fresh  disquietude,  methought  I  heard 

A  voice  thus  speak  :  The  Peace  that  reigns  within 
By  outward  things  nor  lost  is,  nor  conferred. 

Its  life  is  separate,  and  rests  alone 

Upon  an  unseen,  heavenly  supply. 
To  him  who  goes  beneath  the  Cross  'tis  known ; 
There  it  will  bloom  when  all  earth's  gifts  are  gone ; 

Elsewhere,  amid  their  full  possession,  die  ! 


133 


THE  MIKKOB. 


There  's  not  a  fault  that  doth  offend 
Or  cause  me  grief,  in  foe  or  friend, 
But  when  I  lay  my  own  heart  bare 
I  find  its  likeness  imaged  there. 

Suspicion's  charge  unkindly  spoken, 
Friendship's  sweet  trust,  in  secret  broken, 
Though  hid  from  others,  oft  hath  been 
Mine  own  acknowledged  bosom  sin. 
10 


134  THE  MIRROR. 

What  love  professed  with  selfish  aim, 
What  wrath  that  burns  with  cruel  flame, 
Can  I  condemn  to  punishment 
And  show  my  own  hands  free  from  taint? 

There  is  no  evil  thought  confined, 
A  guest  in  the  polluted  mind, 
But  when  I  search  my  memory  o'er 
Its  footsteps  have  been  there  before. 

So  it  doth  happen,  that  whene'er 
In  others,  guilty  stains  appear, 
The  charge  I  would  prefer,  returns, 
And  o'er  my  brow  its  impress  burns. 


135 


THE  DYING  HOUR. 


Often  I  think  of  it.     Before  the  time 
It  comes  to  test  my  labors — rilled  with  light, 
Which  sheds  its  own  pure  lustre  o'er  my  works— 
Or  sometimes  wrapt  in  shadows.     Oh,  at  night, 
The  lonely,  silent  night,  I  have  awaked, 
And  thoughts  of  death  have  fallen  over  me 
Like  horror  of  deep  darkness !     All  my  toils, 
Those  finished,  those  yet  shaping  in  my  hands, 


136  THE   DYING    HOUR. 

Then  rose  and  stood  as  stern  accusers  forth, 
Urging  my  guilt— yea,  even  my  holy  things 
Did  threaten  me  with  Hell.     And  yet  was  this 
My  folly !     I  saw  the  deformity 
Of  my  stained  life,  but  looked  not  on  the  robe 
That  should  with  beauty  cover  it — an  awe 
It  was  of  God,  unmingled  with  that  love 
Which  casts  out  fear. 

But  sometimes  as  the  Sun 
Thro'  the  dim  chamber  shoots  a  golden  beam, 
So  'midst  the  doubts  that  darken  oft  my  way 
In  glorious  fulness  comes  the  knowledge  down 
Of  my  relation — of  that  filial  tie 
By  which  in  truth  I  walk.     Oh,  then  is  mine 
What  freedom  !     With  what  liberty  I  go ! 
How  gloomy  fears,  like  mountains  piled  before, 
Melt  to  the  plain !     Like  one  surprised  with  strength 
Who  long  hath  halt  been,  as  an  hart  I  leap. 


THE   DYING  HOUR.  137 

But  soon,  by  fault  of  mine,  becomes  too  great 
This  liberty — I  lessen  watchfulness. 
And  so  once  more,  with  wisdom  temp'ring  love, 
God  letteth  pass  a  cloud. 

How  changeful  then 
And  dull,  some  voice  will  say,  must  be  such  life ! 
Where  is  its  privilege  or  peculiar  peace? 
'Tis  not  the  searching  eye  can  find  it  out — 
The  heart  must  harbor  it !     God  hath  no  path 
Laid  down  and  measured,  as  man  lays  the  rule 
By  which  he  leads  his  own :  each  differeth 
In  varied  want,  and  needs  a  separate  way. 
The  bitter  drops  and  sweet,  are  meted  out, 
Mingled  for  every  soul.     But  here  is  it 
Wherein  all  have  their  joy — th'  assurance  given 
That  He  hath  chosen  us,  and  that  he  brings 
Each,  conqueror  at  last,  through  joy  and  woe — 
Yea,  and  through  sin — to  his  eternal  Eest. 


138 


HERE  AND  HEREAFTER. 


Here,  our  lots  differ :  some  have  store  of  wealth, 
Some  do  inherit  power,  some  rich  gifts, 
That  in  the  circuits  vast  and  flight  of  thought, 
Exalt  them  o'er  their  fellows.     But  all  go 
Poor,  stripped,  alike  into  the  other  world ! 
Possessions,  talents,  power,  no  value  have 
In  the  celestial  estimate.     One  price 
And  costly  Gem  alone,  goes  current  there. 


HERE  AND  HEREAFTER.  139 

He  who  in  intellect  ne'er  reached  our  height, 

Who  in  his  lot  was  lodged  with  our  contempt, 

Who  did  group  in  his  body  all  defects, 

If  but  possessed  of  This,  shall  show  more  fair 

And  have  more  honor,  than  he  lacking  it 

Who  rekmed  here,  and  at  death  bestowed  a  throne ! 


140 


CONFLICT. 


When  looking  on  my  heart, 

Its  guilt  I  would  confess 
More  than  the  ready  pen  can  write. 

Or  fluent  tongue  express. 

I  feel  how  true  that  word 
Once  uttered  with  offence; 

O'er  all  things  it  deceitful  is, 
Xor  knoweth  innocence ! 


CONFLICT.  141 

Wearied  I  grow  and  mourn 

The  Conflict  sore  beneath, 
And  cry:  Who  shall  release  me  from 

The  body  of  this  death? 

The  burden  of  my  life 

Seems  more  than  I  can  bear, 
Its  evil  things  to  outnumber 

The  good,  the  true,  the  fair. 

Toward  that  swift  coming  hour 

Which  nature  most  doth  shun, 
I  look  and  think  its  steppings  slow, 

Wishing  my  journey  done. 

Yet  rather  than  thus  wish, 

Though  death  brings  me  no  fear, 
Should  I  not  seek  for  grace  to  live 

And  do  my  duty  here  ? 


142  CONFLICT. 

Tis  but  a  coward's  deed, 
As  we  approach  the  steep, 

To  sigh  for  smoother  steps  beyond 
Or  fold  the  arms  in  sleep. 

But  this  is  not  the  part 

These  hands  are  called  to  do ; 

Why  should  he  gird  his  armor  on 
"Who  fears  the  field  to  view  ? 

With  help  sufficient  now 
And  triumph  at  the  end, 

Can  I  not  for  my  Master's  cause 
One  fleeting  hour  contend? 

If  from  his  victor's  throne 
Christ  hath  the  promise  given. 

That  I  shall  vanquish  all  my  foes 
And  reism  with  him  in  heaven — - 


CONFLICT.  143 

?Twas  to  make  strong  my  heart 

That  so  his  word  was  passed, 
And  shall  I  now  refuse  to  strive 

Because  assured  at  last? 

Is  this  my  gratitude 

When  thus  his  love  appears  ? 
Then  had  I  served  him  best,  shut  up 

Midst  gloomy  doubts  and  fears. 

0  pilgrim  Zionward, 

Who  faints  life's  path  to  tread, 
Thou  art  unworthy  of  thy  place  ! 

Thou  livest,  yet  art  dead ! 

If  the  awed,  trembling  slave 

Hastes  at  his  master's  call, 
How  much  more  should  the  son  beloved 

Who  is  an  heir  to  all  ? 


144 


Shall  creatures  of  an  hour 

Their  part  ordained  fulfil, 
While  I,  born  for  immortal  joys, 
Remain  an  idler,  still  ? 

Oh  no,  he  last  should  turn 

And  from  the  conflict  fly, 
Who  holds  a  pledge  in  God's  own  word 

Of  final  victory. 

The  soul  that  in  this  war 

Can  claim  no  heavenly  Friend, 
May  well  recoil  before  the  foe, 
And  tremble  for  the  end. 

But  he  who  knows  his  trust 

And  sees  his  triumph  sure. 
Should  with  unfaltering  step  press  on 
And  be  a  warrior. 


CONFLICT.  145 

I  will  from  sloth  arise 

And  weak  discouragement ; 
They  fetters  are  to  bind  my  arms, 

By  one  who  hates  me,  sent. 

Nor  is  the  rash  desire 

To  offer  up  my  life 
A  fruit  of  grace,  while  'tis  my  part 

To  mingle  in  its  strife. 

Christ's  friends  and  foes  around, 

Where'er  I  stand,  look  on ; 
They  courage  take,  or  are  dismayed, 

At  each  day  lost  or  won. 

Trust  then,  my  soul,  His  power 

Who  thee  release  can  give; 
When  He  calls,  meet  prepared  death's  hour; 
Till  then,  thy  cross  rejoicing  bear   - 

And  to  His  glory  live. 


146 


THE  NECESSITY  OF  FAITH. 


We  are  hemmed  in  by  possibilities 

Of  so  great  evil,  that  without  a  trust 

In  One  whose  sway  doth  overreach  them  all, 

Our  minds  would  be  companioned  but  with  fears. 

My  body,  hale  to-day,  may  soon  become 

The  lodgment  of  some  most  abhorred  disease. 

My  intellect,  now  in  its  many  parts 

Laid  like  the  atoms  of  transparent  glass, 


THE   NECESSITY    OF   FAITH.  147 

Each  in  its  place,  but  one  in  harmony, 

May  by  some  shock  be  so  disquieted 

That,  order  and  all  just  proportion  gone, 

Darkness  shall  fill  the  room  and  place  of  light. 

There  is  not  one  possession  of  my  joy 

But  as  it  is  the  more  beloved  as  such, 

May  so  be  changed  into  a  heavier  woe ! 

The  currents  that  bring  joy  and  sorrow  down 

Are  viewless,  unknown,  and  beyond  our  reach. 

How  could  we  live  and  bear  the  consciousness 

That  it  is  thus,  untroubled  and  at  peace, 

If  we  held  not  this  firm  persuasion  safe, 

That,  not  by  chance,  these  currents  ebb  and  flow, 

But  as  poured  forth  or  held  back  by  the  hand 

Of  One  whose  wisdom  compasseth  our  fate — 

Who  better  knows  our  need?    From  clay  to  day, 

Save  but  for  this,  shut  in  the  dark  I  go, 

With  treasures  both  to  forfeit  and  to  gain; 

Yet  never  fearful  save  when  letting  slip 


148  THE   NECESSITY    OF    FAITH. 

This  sweet  belief,  I  trust  in  mine  own  strength. 
Then  am  I  tost  and  sore  disquieted, 
Seeing  how  great  my  hazard,  and  how  weak 
I  am  to  combat,  o'errule  or  defend ! 


149 


OMNISCIENCE. 


How  different  is  God's  view  from  ours 

We  dimly  scan  a  few  dark  hours, 

But  before  Him,  as  one  page,  lie 

The  Past  and  all  Futurity! 

We  wait  th'  event  that  shall  befall, 

He  doth  each  in  its  order  call, 

And  ere  the  first  had  summed  up, all ! 


11 


150  OMNISCIENCE. 

To  us,  what  hath  been,  is  forgot, 
What  shall  be,  yet  unknown,  is  not; 
To  Him  all  equidistant,  clear, 
The  age  long  gone,  the  moment  here — 
Throughout  Eternity's  vast  round 
Naught  new  nor  old  is,  lost  nor  found ! 


151 


PERFECTION  OF  ALL  GOD'S  WORKS. 


Tell  me  what  hand  invisible  it  is 
That  through  the  far-off  depths  of  forests  wild, 
Scatters  the  seeds  of  fragrant,  tinted  flowers — 
So  that  they  spring  'midst  the  untrodden  shade 
As  in  a  garden,  though  no  eye  doth  see  ? 
Who  is  it  from  the  circling  firmament 
Draweth  the  clouds  at  evening  toward  the  west, 
And  drapes  and  groups  them  round  the  setting  sun  ? 


152  PERFECTION   OF  ALL   GOD'S  WORKS. 

If  bare  and  unadorned  use  alone 
Hath  merit  in  God's  sight,  then  why  are  these? 
Or  doth  the  rugged  and  deep-buried  ore, 
Because  of  the  strong  particles  it  yields, 
More  speak  and  magnify  the  Maker's  praise 
Than  the  frail  rose  that  useless  o'er  it  blooms? 
Beware !  His  creatures  all  have  use,  and  serve 
Somewhere  within  the  scale  and  compass  vast 
Of  His  designs,  the  purpose  of  their  being. 


153 


THE  SUMMER  COTTAGE  IN  WINTER. 


This  is  the  place  where,  when  glad  Spring 
Doth  from  the  deep  earth  blossoms  bring, 

I  come,  with  those  I  love,  to  dwell. 
Winter,  Spring's  brother,  robed  in  snow, 
Not  as  some  say,  her  envious  foe, 

She  greeteth  here,  and  bids  farewell ; 
While  round  the  stream  her  warblers  sing, 


154  THE   SUMMER   COTTAGE   IN   WINTER. 

And  this  white  cottage  by  its  side. 
Lo,  what  a  change !    Then,  open  wide 
Doors,  windows,  tempt  the  gentle  air; 
Now,  stripping  field  and  forest  bare, 
The  winds,  as  for  its  ruin  sent, 
Do  shake  this  trembling  tenement. 

I  might  be  sad.    The  faithless  thought 
To  me  by  less  is  often  brought, 

But  I  will  rather  think  of  when, 
Midst  calmer  hours,  'neath  heavens  serene, 

Sweet  Summer  will  be  here  again, 
"Waving  her  leafy  robes  of  green. 

Soon  shall  break  forth  that  milder  day, 

Soon  'neath  the  shade  my  child  shall  play, 
Watching  the  robin  twine  his  nest ; 

Or,  grouped  all  on  the  river's  brink, 
We'll  stand  in  presence  of  the  west, 

While  down  its  steep  the  sun  doth  sink. 


THE- SUMMER  COTTAGE   IN  WINTER.  155 

For  so  the  full  and  bounteous  scope 

Of  the  good  promise  gone  before, 

That  seed-time,  harvest,  autumn's  store, 

Eevolving  shall  fail  never  more, 
Giveth  me  liberty  to  hope ! 

Only  this  one  remembrance 

Driveth  these  glad  thoughts  blushing  hence; 
It  is  that  for  long  seasons  past, 

Given  me  in  this  place  of  good, 
I  at  the  Giver's  feet  have  cast 

But  moments  brief  of  gratitude. 


156 


DAILY  FALLS. 


When  Satan  tempts  our  feet  to  stray 
Beyond  that  strait  and  narrow  way 

Where  pilgrims  walk  below, 
If  his  allurements  we  refuse 
And  still  that  lowly  pathway  choose, 

How  joyfully  we  go! 


DAILY    FALLS.  157 

But  when  we  listen  to  his  voice, 
As  led  to  falter  iu  our  choice 

By  his  false  argument, 
How  soon  our  weakness  is  espied, 
How  swift  he  hurries  us  aside, 

Though  scarce  we  yield  consent. 

Then,  though  we  may  not  wander  far 
From  that  path  where  our  joys  still  are, 

But  thither  soon  return ; 
How  find  we  from  our  soul's  sweet  trust 
The  strength,  the  peace,  the  gladness  lost 

While  we  are  left  to  mourn ! 

One  step,  one  bad  indulged  desire, 
May  smothered  embers  set  on  fire, 

Or  let  the  wild  flood  in; 
The  Tempter  now  must  be  withstood, 
We  must  now  quickly  stem  the  flood 

Or  be  o'erwhelmed  by  sin. 


158  DAILY   FALLS. 

And  when  by  long  contention  won, 
Or  brief  sharp  strife,  the  fight  is  done, 

With  all  our  sin  confest, 
What  deep  discouragement,  what  pain 
That  we  have  been  ensnared  again, 

Disturb  and  wound  our  breast. 

It  is  a  time  of  doubts  and  fears, 
Of  the  bowed  head  and  rising  tears, 

Gloom  seems  to  cover  all; 
For  then  the  Foe,  baffled  once  more, 
Cries :  Thou  shalt  yet  be  given  o'er 

And  one  day  wholly  fall. 

I  know,  0  Lord,  so  proud  a  heart 
As  mine  must  often  feel  the  smart, 

Its  true  estate  to  know; 
That  to  look  inward  and  behold 
Its  vileness  as  a  world  unfold, 

Doth  make  me  humbly  go. 


DAILY  FALLS.  159 

Yet  I  beseech  thee,  only  when 
I  heed  the  Tempter's  voice  again, 

Leave  me  to  be  o'erthrown; 
And  in  thy  mercy,  soon  restore 
My  feet  to  the  safe  path  once  more 

When  I  my  guilt  am  shown. 


160 


THE  WEIGHT. 


Christ's  followers,  though  forgiven,  go  not  yet 
Wholly  unburdened.     Each  one  hath  his  load 
That  holds  him  back ;  or  as  he  casts  this  off 
Another  clings  with  firmer  hold.     The  weight, 
If  not  without,  is  spiritual  and  unseen. 
If  not  an  arm  of  flesh  doth  drag  thee  down, 
One  viewless,  grasps  thy  shoulder  day  by  day. 
Always  there  is  temptation.     'Tis  the  growth 


THE  WEIGHT.  161 

Spontaneous  of  the  ground  on  which  we  tread ; 

It  doth  pervade  the  atmosphere  we  breathe ; 

And  still  the  fall'n  heart,  as  it  comes,  makes  room. 

Yet  is  there  even  'neath  its  tainted  touch 

A  patience  to  attain ;  not  that  which  bids 

It  welcome  to  the  breast,  or  ever  rests 

From  strife  against  it,  but  which  doth  ward  off 

Discouragement,  and  'gainst  our  lot  complaint. 

Infirmity  is  loss,  and  yet  by  it 

The  Christian  hath  his  gain.     Cure  my  disease, 

And  my  Physician  will  return  no  more. 

There  is  an  envious  captive  in  my  mind, 

Or  shall  I  call  it  ruler  ?     Surely  not 

The  highest  throne  it  fills  there,  yet  its  seat 

Is  not  unclothed  of  power.     If  I  flee, 

I  bear  it  with  me — silent  if  I  sit, 

Yet  gives  it  me  not  rest.     No  strength  of  mine 

Can  cast  it  out;  and  He  on.  whom  I  call, 


162  THE  WEIGHT. 

Permitting  still  its  presence,  only  saith, 
My  grace  sufficeth  for  thee.     Give  me,  Lord, 
That  grace,  and  while  thy  purpose  holds  me  here, 
Teach  me  how  with  corruption  to  abide, 
Nor  loving  it,  nor  murmuring — but  with  hope 
So  much  more  ardent,  longing  to  be  free. 


163 


THE  PILGRIM'S  SONG. 


When  cherished  wishes  thwarted  are, 

And  for  an  even  way, 
Rough  places  that  distress  our  feet, 

Their  rugged  tracts  display; 

If  we  will  lean  upon  the  arm, 
Compassionate  and  strong, 

Though  it  be  rough,  our  upward  path 
Shall  seem  nor  steep  nor  long. 


164  the  pilgrim's  song. 

For  Christ's  supporting  grace  can  change 
The  most  distasteful  thing, 

And  with  the  burden  that  we  bear, 
More  of  refreshment  bring. 

'Tis  not  beneath  serenest  skies, 
That  richest  harvests  grow, 

But  where  the  sun  oft  robes  in  clouds, 
And  tempests  sometimes  blow. 

Long  ranged  I  o'er  the  flowery  plain 

Of  fair  prosperity, 
Unreached  by  sorrow,  but  at  heart 

No  blessing  came  to  me. 

Again  I  bore  those  very  griefs 
That  had  been  dreaded  most, 

And  lo,  the  peace  was  hid  with  them 
Which,  hurt  not,  I  had  lost! 


THE   PILGRIM'S   SONG.  165 

Now  what  are  all  these  days  and  years 
Through  which  we  struggling  arc, 

But  times  of  sunshine  and  of  storm 
That  more  fruit  we  may  bear? 

Though  not  a  leaf  should  be  disturbed 

By  windy  storm  or  rain, 
Were  we  content,  amid  the  field, 

Unfruitful  to  remain  ? 

Or  though  all  honor,  wealth  and  ease 

Do  circle  round  our  lot, 
What  are  they,  when  the  heart  computes, 

If  peace  come  with  them  not? 

Oh !  burdened  heart,  no  more,  then,  strive 

To  escape  thy  weight  of  care, 
But  rather  seek  the  aiding  grace 
That  makes  it  joy  to  bear.    , 
12 


L66 


GRIEF  AT  A  MOTHER'S  LOSS. 


Why  should  I  weep?  were  her  allotted  years 

Cut  off  while  life  exulted  in  its  morn  ? 
Did  she  go  down  to  death  'midst  doubts  and  fears, 

Reluctant  toward  a  Bar  of  Judgment  borne? 

No  !  till  life's  evening  reached  those  years — their  store 
Was  as  the  full  shock  when  the  harvest 's  done, 

And  for  a  swift  release  she  thirsted  more 
Than  doth  the  servant  for  the  setting  sun. 


-    GRIEF   AT  A  MOTHER'S   LOSS.  107 

Why,  then,  do  I  still  weep  ?    Oh,  not  for  her 

These  flowing  tears  above  her  slumbers  fall ; 
To  break  such  sweet  repose  unkinclness  were, 

Though  she  would  rise,  my  lips  should  breathe  no  call. 

She  bore  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
I  would  not  now  disturb  its  following  rest, 

For  blood-washed  robes  give  back  her  weight  of  clay — 
A  thorny  pillow  for  a  Saviour's  breast : 

But  this  is  why  I  mourn:  yea,  from  the  deep 
Of  a  bowed  soul,  here  o'er  her  grave  alone; 

Because  the  recollection  will  not  sleep — 
I  did  not  love  her  as  I  should  have  done. 


108 


EVER  NEAR  FALLING. 


When  sometimes  roused  up  from  their  sleep, 

Or  broken  from  their  captive's  chain, 
My  passions  do  new  revels  keep, 

Reigning  as  'twere  within  again ; 
When  at  such  times  a  viewless  hand 

Leads  me  to  some  still  spot  aside, 
And  lifts  the  veil — amazed  I  stand, 

That  such  dread  tenants  may  abide 


EVER  NEAR   FALLING.  169 

Still  in  a  heart  that  loveth  God, 
The  chosen  place  of  his  abode ! 

And  could  I  mine  own  madness  tame, 
Or  quench  the  self-destroying  flame, 
If  none  now  to  my  succor  came? 
Ah,  no !  let  others  blindly  boast 
Of  some  power  in  themselves  to  trust ; 
But  as  for  me,  since  that  first  day 

When,  moved  by  grace,  I  turned  toward  heaven, 
Each  briefest  footstep  of  the  way 

Was  made  in  strength  by  Jesus  given, 
Strength,  that  whate'er  its  cost  may  be, 
Was  sriven  costless  unto  me. 


170 


DELAY  OF  CHRISTIAN  EFFORT. 


Striving  in  coward  listlessness 
Each  good  work  still  to  shun — 

How  can  a  Father's  sanction  bless 
Our  labors  ne'er  begun? 

Go  boldly  up — each  hind'rance  meet, 

Assail  that  nearest  by ; 
When  Duty  calls,  to  bear  defeat 

Is  better  than  to  fly ! 


-  DELAY   OF   CHRISTIAN  EFFORT.  171 

How  know'st  thou  but  th'  occasion  rare 

This  very  hour  supplies  ? 
A  victim  struggles  in  the  snare, 

A  brother,  captive  lies. 

He  who  the  search  unwearied  keeps 

With  fervent,  zealous  mind, 
May  rescue  some;  but  he  who  sleeps 

Surely  no  souls  shall  find. 

Time  ne'er  on  earth  will  fold  its  wings, 

Onward  thy  steps  are  pressed, 
Slothful  and  diligent  it  brings 

Where  both  alike  must  rest. 

If  it  be  sweet,  when  day  is  past, 

Though  not  increased  thy  store, 
To  think,  not  to  th'  endeavor  lost, 

Its  fruitless  moments  were, 


1^2  DELAY   OF   CHRISTIAN  EFFORT. 

How  sweeter,  far,  will  be  at  length, 

As  wanes  life's  setting  sun, 
The  thought,  To  Christ  was  given  its  strength, 

Though  naught  but  Heaven  be  won. 


173 


AUTHORSHIP. 


It  is  a  thing  of  weightiest  account 

To  write  for  those  who  shall  come  after  us. 

The  spoken  word  is  but  an  uttered  sound, 

It  moves  a  ripple  in  the  air  and  dies ; 

But  that  writ  down — transmitted  as  a  gift 

From  thee  to  generations  yet  unborn, 

Shall  go  on,  ever  planting  the  same  seed 

And  rearing  fruit,  through  Time  !     Though  unto  thee 


174  authorship. 

In  thine  unhappy  dwelling  after  death, 

Souls  shall  be  sent,  having  chos'n  by  thy  word 

Till  thou  wouldst  stop  the  stream — 'twill  be  too  late  ! 

Engraved  once  on  the  world's  recording  book, 

The  lesson  thou  hast  left  there,  must  endure, 

Be  't  good  or  evil.     And  though  thou  shouldst  come 

After,  into  that  safe  and  Blood-washed  fold 

Where  not  thy  first  defects,  nor  foemen's  shafts 

Shall  ever  wound  thee— yet,  if  by  those  lines 

"Written  before,  not  now  to  be  effaced, 

Others  do  lose  the  path  that  thou  hast  found, 

How  marred  thy  blest  conclusion !     But  if  drawn 

Heavenward  by  thy  wooings,  they  are  led 

Through  coming  ages  to  thy  bright  abode, 

Then  seems  thine  own  salvation  but  a  part — 

But  one  gem  of  thy  gath'ring — as  one  gift 

'Midst  offerings  large  to  Heaven's  treasury. 


175 


THE  WORLD  AND  OUR  LABORS. 


He  who  fills  a  lofty  place, 

Though  he  climbed  there  to  do  good, 
If  one  spot  his  robe  deface 

Shows  it  to  the  world  abroad. 

So  the  man,  who  to  some  work 

Of  mercy  would  devote  his  days, 
If  frailties  'mid  his  virtues  lurk, 

May  gain,  perchance,  more  blame  than  praise. 


176  THE   WORLD  AND  OUR  LABORS. 

And  some,  it  may  be,  who  in  heart 
Are  true,  and  long  with  earnest  will 

To  act,  take  not  the  laborer's  part 
Because  they  feel  their  frailties  still. 

And  truly,  bitterness  he  reaps 

Who  sowing  zeal,  the  world  calls  it, 

For  some  sin  o'er  which  he  too  weeps, 
The  cloaking  of  the  hypocrite ! 

Yet  is  it  just  thus  to  desert 

For  our  small  loss  the  world's  great  cause? 
Willing  to  toil  but  bear  no  hurt, 

Serve  we  our  King  for  man's  applause  ? 

No,  nor  doth  censure  me  defraud, 
Though  battling  in  my  place  I  be ; 

The  good  I  do  belongs  to  God, 
My  faults  alone  belong  to  me. 


THE    WORLD   AND   OUR  LABORS. 

And  why  should  I  so  keenly  feel 
"What  foes  may  even  falsely  say  ? 

Am  I  not  for  sins  darker  still 
Mine  own  accuser  day  by  day? 

My  Master  but  fulfils  my  word ; 

I  tell  him,  for  His  sake  alone, 
Not  mine  own  gain,  I  wield  the  sword 

And  praise  Him  for  my  victories  won ! 

'Tis  well.     In  my  infirmity, 

Not  in  my  strength  shall  swell  my  song- 
Mine  own  need  shall  my  glory  be, 

For  so,  in  Christ,  am  I  made  strong ! 

Only,  0  Lord,  thou  near  me  keep, 
In  Thee  may  I  my  succor  find, 

Nor  let  me  from  man's  scoffing  reap 
New  pride,  but  lowliness  of  mind. 


THE   WORLD   AND   OUR   LABORS. 

Then,  low  or  lofty  be  my  place, 
My  earthly  portion  gain  or  loss, 

I  will  with  patience  run  my  race, 
And  count  it  joy  to  bear  Thy  Cress. 


179 


A  SPRING  IN  THE  WOODS. 


Not  far  I  walked,  when  from  the  road 
A  palh  wound  through  the  deep,  wild  wood; 
I  turned  on  it,  and  following, 
Came  to  a  hidden,  crystal  Spring. 
As  close  beside  its  grassy  brink, 
I  prostrate  kneeling  bent  to  drink, 
'Neath  its  smooth  surface,  imaged  there, 
I  saw  tall  boughs,  as  in  the  air— 


180  A  SPRING   IX   THE  WOODS. 

While  through  their  openings,  farther  down 
Spots  of  the  deep  blue  heaven  shone; 
Then,  when  I  broke  the  falling  light, 
Lifting  my  hand  to  shade  my  sight, 
These  pictures  from  the  surface  fled, 

And  but  a  little  way  below 
The  white  sand,  boiling,  gleamed  instead, 

Pure,  spotless,  like  a  bed  of  snow. 
I  noted  to  the  cool  wet  side, 
Welled  up  the  placid,  limpid  tide, 
Then  overflowed  and  stole  away, 
Where  thicker  foliage  dimmed  the  day ; 
The  rivulet  not  heard  nor  seen, 
But  marked  by  growth  of  deeper  green, 
With  here  and  there,  amid  the  gloom, 
A  wild  rose  in  its  desert  bloom. 

How  long  it  was  I  cannot  tell, 
Ere  I,  here,  in  deep  slumber  fell — 


-     A  SPRING  IN  THE  WOODS.  181 

When  my  closed  eyes  beheld  a  sight, 
Unveiled  not  to  them  by  the  light. 
Methought  the  trees  about  me  drew 
Apart,  and  the  long  vista  through, 
I  looked  on  the  descending  sun 
As  oft  before  then  I  had  done ; 
Only  the  clouds  and  sea  of  gold 
Now  like  a  gateway  did  unfold, 
Mighty  and  glorious  to  behold ! 
Within  those  gates,  undimmed  and  clear, 
'Midst  Heaven's  unclouded  atmosphere, 
I  saw  afar  a  shining  band 
Look  out  toward  our  earthly  land — 
I  saw  them  on  Heav'n's  threshold  stand ! 
Soon  upward  borne,  as  it  had  been 
With  glad  news,  from  this  world  of  sin, 
An  Angel  to  them  entered  in. 
13 


182  A  SPRING  IN  THE   WOODS. 

Then  quick  that  bright  host  gathered  round, 
I  heard  unnumbered  voices  sound, 
"  The  dead  hath  life !    The  lost  is  found !" 
At  this  I  saw  the  Heavens  no  more ; 
The  earth  closed  round  me  as  before. 
Then,  while  I  lay  there  wondering, 
Methought,  beside  that  hidden  Spring, 
Even  with  me  in  that  lonely  wood, 
Qne  of  those  same  bright  beings  stood. 
"Know'st  thou  what  thou  hast  seen?"  said  he; 
" Dimly,"  I  answered,  "doth  dust  see  ; 
Even  though  I  know,  yet  tell  thou  me." 
"  Whene'er,"  he  said,  "  on  swiftest  wing 
Angels  to  Heaven  tidings  bring, 
That  but  one  soul  hath  turned  to  God, 
Joy  filleth  all  our  blest  abode !" 


183 


POSTHUMOUS  FAME. 


To  die,  is  but  the  fate  decreed  for  all, 
And,  dying  thus,  to  lose  in  all  we  have 
That  property  which  gave  it  worth  to  us. 
What  I  do  here  possess,  if  not  given  up 
Before  that  hour,  must  be  given  up  at  death ; 
And  what  I  have  which  Death  robs  me  not  of, 
As  a  renowned  name — though  still  I  keep, 
Is  worthless  to  me  who  have  from  it  crone. 


184  TOSTHUMOUS   FAME. 

For  though  it  lives  and  still  remaineth  mine, 
Tis  in  a  stronger  sense  not  thus,  while  I 
Am  dead  though  it  lives,  and  can  know  it  not. 
Because,  where'er  my  dwelling  after  death, 
To  this  world  and  the  things  within  it  bound 
I  am  as  if  in  all  I  ceased  to  be. 
Therefore  I  find  my  closely-reckoning  soul 
Taking  the  less  note  of  its  portion  here, 
Choosing  one  rather,  deathless  as  itself, 
Though  here  possessed  not,  for  the  life  beyond. 


THE  END. 


